JENNY   ESSENDEN 


UNIT.  W  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  I.O.S 


JENNY  ESSENDEN 


BY 

ANTHONY   PRY! 

AUTHOR  OF  "MARQUERAY'S  DUEL" 


NEW  YORK 

ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  CO. 
1921 


Copyright,       1921,       by 
ROBERT    M.    MCBRIDE    &    Co. 


Printed       in       the 
United     States     of     America 


Published       1921 


TO  D.  C, 

Without  whose  help  this  tale 
could  not  have  been  written. 


2132206 


JENNY  ESSENDEN 


CHAPTER    I 


MARK  STURT  had  not  long  returned  from  an  ex- 
pedition to  the  Southern  Andes,  and  since  he  was 
of  a  contemplative  turn  of  mind  it  amused  him  to  stand 
behind  a  curtain  in  the  recess  of  the  balcony  window  and 
watch  the  dance  going  on  to  the  tune  of  Offenbach's 
ingenuous  Barcarolle.  Andean  rivers  run  with  a  swifter 
flow,  and  Pacific  tides  flood  in  with  a  stronger  wash 
than  that  Mediterranean  rippling,  but  for  all  that  Mark 
liked  the  little  lazy  tune— liked  it  the  better,  perhaps,  be- 
cause it  was  steeped  in  the  color  and  languor  of  Euro- 

1 


2  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

pean  life.     After  the  energetic  wanderings  which  had 
taken  him  over  the  porphyry  barrier  of  the  Cordilleras 
and  across  the  Chilian  nitrate  plains,  it  was  agreeable  to 
return  to  the  leisurely  ways  of  an  English  country  house. 
His  reflections  were  tranquil  and  pleasant,  and  yet, 
though  he  was  scarcely  aware  of  it,  they  were  tinged 
with  melancholy.     He  was  five  and  thirty,  an  age  when 
a  man  begins,  in  odd  moments,  to  contrast  what  he  has 
done  with  what  he  once  dreamed  of  doing.     Sturt  was, 
in  modest  measure,  a  successful  man;  he  had  realized 
some  of  his  ambitions  and  was  in  a  fair  way  to  achieve 
others.     He  was  well  in  health  and  well  off,  staying  in 
a  pleasant  house  and  among  pleasant  people;  Charles 
Ferrier  and  his  wife  were  old  friends,  and  for  the  latter 
Sturt  felt  as  warm  a  sentiment  as  a  man  can  feel  for 
any  one  in  a  life  where  the  affections  are  habitually  sub- 
ordinated to  the  activities.    But  the  dancing,  or  the  tune, 
or  some  accident  of  his  own  mood  touched  him  to  a  vague 
dissatisfaction.    As  happened  to  many  men  who  were  in 
their  early  twenties  in  1914,  the  discipline  of  endurance 
and  responsibility  had  made  a  middle-aged  man  of  him 
in  a  few  weeks,  and  he  had  never  been  able  to  go  back 
as  did  many  more  and  pick  up  the  threads  where  he  had 
dropped  them:  and  now  and  again  there  stirred  in  him 
a  regret,  not  for  what  he  had  lost,  but  for  what  he  had 
never  had.     Offenbach's  melodies  are  a  cry  to  youth, 
and  Sturt  had  done  with  youth.     Or  had  he  not,  after 
all,  altogether  done  with  it?    "Ces  ceuvres  legeres,  ou  se 
melent  subtilement  la  froide  ironic  et  la  griserie."     But 
that  sort  of  griserie  is  for  boys  of  twenty.     Happy  boys 
of  twenty,  then !    Say  what  one  will,  it  is  sober  work  to 
reflect  that  one  will  never  hear  chimes  at  midnight  again. 
A  touch  fell  on  his  arm.     His  brother  had  come  up 
the  broad  flight  of  steps  from  the  garden,  and  stood  look- 
ing over  his  shoulder  into  the  dark  splendor  of  flowers 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  3 

and  jewels,  and  candle  flames  that  sparkled,  like  stars 
reflected  in  black  water,  on  black  paneled  walls.  They 
were  both  tall  men,  but  Lawrence  Sturt  was  the  taller 
and  in  every  way  the  more  remarkable,  a  figure  difficult 
to  overlook  or  to  forget :  they  were  twin  brothers,  but 
Lawrence  might  have  passed  for  eight  and  twenty.  There 
are  no  milestones  on  the  primrose  way. 

"Pretty  sight,  isn't  it?"  he  said  in  low,  blunted  tones 
that  carried  no  further  than  his  companion's  ear.  "Rather 
different  from  our  last  night  at  the  base!  Do  you  re- 
member how  the  tent  blew  down  and  we  had  to  dig  for 
our  instruments  by  starlight  in  the  snow?  Royal  coun- 
try that  by  night — all  dark  blue  and  silver.  But  one 
can't  camp  at  fourteen  thousand  feet  in  the  Andes  in 
July — more's  the  pity  !" 

"I  thought  I  saw  you  go  into  the  garden  with  Miss 
Archdale.  Have  you  deserted  her?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  Lawrence  replied.  "She  fled  from 
me  on  the  terrace  to  fetch  a  scarf  from  her  room.  Why 
should  it  take  her  twenty  minutes  to  fetch  a  scarf  from 
her  room?" 

"Can't  imagine.  No  wonder  you  pine  for  the  Andes," 
said  Mark,  amused.  "Arising  out  of  that  question — 
what  had  you  been  saying  to  her?" 

"If  you  want  to  know,  I  was  telling  her  our  plans  for 
Colorado.  She  was  rather  struck  when  I  said  you  were 
coming  too:  wanted  to  know  how  long  you  would  be 
away  and  what  your  constituents  would  think  of  your 
going  off  again.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  she 
takes  an  interest  in  your  affairs  ?" 

"No,  it  hasn't.     There  she  is  with  Mrs.  Ferrier." 

Lawrence  Sturt  followed  his  brother's  long-sighted 
glance  to  the  female  figures  framed  in  a  distant  doorway : 
their  hostess,  Dorothea  Ferrier,  a  slender,  fair-haired 
young  woman  with  vividly  blue  eyes,  and  her  friend, 


4  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Miss  Archdale.  "Trust  you  to  know  where  she  is,"  Law- 
rence murmured.  "And  on  my  honor  I  don't  blame  you ! 
Dodo  Ferrier  sets  her  off:  not  that  Dodo  isn't  a  pretty 
woman  too  in  her  way,  but  she  looks  washed  out  by  the 
side  of  Maisie  Archdale— a  fact  of  which  the  fair  Maisie 
is  probably  aware.  Women's  friendships !" 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Lawrence?"  Mark  asked  mildly. 
He  had  learned  long  ago  to  accept  his  brother's  point 
of  view  without  protest,  but,  if  he  never  quarreled  with 
it,  he  was  still  occasionally  mystified. 

"Every  word  of  it.  Women  are  born  actresses :  they 
generally  have  twenty  different  motives  for  everything 
they  do,  nineteen  of  which  aren't  presentable.  Oh,  not 
Dodo  so  much !  She's  married  and  out  of  the  running, 
and  very  fond  of  Charles  Ferrier  into  the  bargain,  which 
leaves  her  free  to  be  as  natural  as  any  woman  can  be. 
But  the  other  is  the  fine  social  mask — Sappho  up  to 
date " 

"Sappho — ?"  Mark,  who  had  been  listening  with 
half  an  ear,  turned  round  to  his  brother.  "Look  here, 
old  man,  you  oughtn't  to  say  that  sort  of  thing.  It  isn't 
decent." 

"No,  isn't  it?"  Lawrence  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case,  never  name  her' — is  that 
your  idea  of  decency?" 

"After  all  one  doesn't  forget  that  Miss  Archdale  has 
no  men  belonging  to  her." 

"Ah !  I  apologize.  I  forgot  your  personal  feelings,  my 
boy." 

"Lawrence,  don't  be  a  fool !    You  know  I  haven't  any." 

"Not  you,"  said  Lawrence,  pressing  his  arm.  "Never 
look  at  her,  do  you?  Couldn't  tell  me  the  color  of  her 
eyes?  In  point  of  fact  I  can't  see  why  you  hold  off,  for 
you  could  hardly  do  better  for  yourself.  You  ought  to 
marry  and  now's  your  time.  One  of  us  is  bound  to  carry 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  5 

on  the  name,  and,  candidly,  I  don't  think  I  was  born  to 
figure  as  a  husband  and  father.  Whereas  you,  old  Mark, 
I  think  I  see  you  with  a  little  less  hair  and  a  little  more 
waistcoat,  taking  the  kids — you  will  infallibly  have  half 
a  dozen  of  them — to  Mass  on  a  Sunday  morning.  Your 
eldest  son  will  carry  on  the  business  and  step  into  the 
family  constituency,  your  second  will  go  to  Sandhurst: 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise  that  the  third  won't  be  a  de- 
traque  like  myself.  Come,  own  that  the  prospect  at- 
tracts you!  And  Maisie  Archdale  will  do  you  down  to 
the  ground:  handsome,  good  family,  good  temper,  any 
amount  of  money,  and  no  near  relations.  Probably  she 
has  a  devil  of  a  will  of  her  own  but  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  cope  with  that :  you're  not  Arthur  Sturt's  son 
for  nothing.  He  had  an  eye  for  a  pretty  woman,  too : 
come  now,  haven't  you?" 

Sex  was  the  one  aspect  of  civilized  life  that  interested 
Lawrence  Sturt,  and  it  would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  he 
was  the  less  popular  because  in  any  male  society,  however 
refined  or  respectable,  his  genial  cynicism  assumed  com- 
munity of  taste.  Mark's  answering  smile  was  rather 
dry :  it  was  difficult  to  resist  Lawrence  when  he  bade 
one  read  the  world  in  terms  of  French  comedy:  he  was 
improper  but  unaffected. 

"After  all,  she  might  not  have  me.    It  is  on  the  cards !" 

"Rising  politician — blameless  record?  Hang  it,  she's 
got  to  marry  somebody — she's  three-and-twenty." 

"And  I'm  five-and-thirty.  Thanks !"  Mark  shook  his 
head.  "You  aren't  so  encouraging  as  apparently  you 
mean  to  be."  Lawrence's  unbelieving  eyes  irritated  him 
into  indiscretion.  "I  don't  want  to  marry  any  one,  but 
if  I  did  it  wouldn't  be  a  woman  who  has  already  turned 
down  a  dozen  better  men  than  I  am." 

"So  that's  it,  is  it  ?  I  fancied  there  was  something  of 
the  sort  in  the  back  of  your  mind." 


6  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Something  of  what  sort?" 

"Oh!  I  understand  well  enough:  sympathize,  too,  if 
it  comes  to  that.  She  is  too  rich.  It's  a  difficult  position, 
and  I  can't  see  you  competing  with  Forester's  lovely  uni- 
form or  Rudolph  P.  Hickson's  railway  shares.  All  the 
same  it  seems  a  pity,  since  you  confess  to  the  attrac- 
tion  " 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Lawrence !"  Mark  Sturt  broke  into  an 
impatient  laugh :  if  at  the  back  of  his  mind  there  lurked 
an  assent,  he  was  not  going  to  admit  as  much  even  to 
himself.  But  he  knew  from  experience  that  it  would 
be  idle  to  lose  his  temper  with  Lawrence,  who  would 
only  become  more  and  more  placidly  confirmed  in  his 
own  opinion.  Mark  was  not  self-conscious  enough  to 
realize  that  he  was  confirming  it  at  every  step  merely 
by  arguing  the  point  instead  of  letting  the  conversation 
drop.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
watching  Miss  Archdale  or  that  he  liked  to  think  of  her 
in  relation  to  himself.  "No !  go  your  own  way  and  leave 
me  to  mine.  Heavens !  what  should  I  do  with  that  lovely 
young  lady  ?  I  couldn't  take  her  to  Colorado — or  to  the 
works.  I  should  have  to  spend  my  life  steering  her 
through  what  Gray  son-Drew  calls  the  social  vortex — if, 
that  is,  she  would  have  me,  which,  as  I'm  not  a  duke, 
of  course  she  wouldn't." 

"No,  wouldn't  she?"  Lawrence  was  flicking  a  rose 
leaf  from  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "My  good  Mark,  I'm 
not  so  sure.  It  is  precisely  you  fellows  who  refuse  to 
compete " 

"Compete  for  what?" 

Even  Lawrence  Sturt's  Gallic  candor  died  on  his  lips, 
for  the  speaker  was  Miss  Archdale  herself.  She  was 
alone,  having  apparently  crossed  the  room  on  purpose 
to  join  them  in  the  alcove :  she  came  up  to  Lawrence 
;with  her  slow  easy  step,  but  she  was  quietly  watching 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  7 

Mark.  Dodo  Ferrier  in  the  doorway  pressed  her  hands 
together  with  a  little  "Oh!"  between  mirth  and  distress: 
she  wished  Maisie  would  not  do  these  odd  things, 
which  laid  her  open  to  misinterpretation!  Somehow  or 
other,  however,  she  managed  to  escape  comment  as  a 
rule. 

"A  penny  for  your — not  your  thoughts,  Captain  Sturt, 
they're  probably  too  crude  for  publication.  But  for  the 
end  of  your  sentence :  tell  me,  what  won't  your  brother 
compete  for?" 

"Is  this  your  apology  for  doing  me  out  of  a  dance? 
Come  back  into  the  garden,"  said  Lawrence,  offering 
her  his  arm.  "Then  I'll  tell  you  anything  you  like." 

"Anything  you  like,  you  mean,"  said  Maisie.  "Then 
I  should  have  to  fetch  another  scarf."  She  turned  to 
Mark.  "You  are  not  engaged,  are  you,  Mr.  Sturt?" 

"For  this  dance  ?    No,"  said  Mark  Sturt,  startled. 

"Then — may  I  have  the  honor?" 

She  curtseyed  to  him  airily  with  her  teasing  faint  smile 
and  her  sparkling  eyes,  direct  and  merry,  like  the  eyes 
of  a  boy  of  fourteen.  Of  the  two  men  it  was  Mark  who 
was  the  more  disconcerted — Mark,  who  had  known  her 
only  for  a  few  weeks,  while  Lawrence  was  a  friend  of  a 
year's  standing.  Lawrence,  after  the  first  gleam  of  ir- 
repressible surprise,  became  distantly  polite,  murmured 
a  vague  apology,  brushed  past  Mark,  and  escaped  among 
the  dancers.  His  tact  was  equal  to  any  strain,  but  there 
are  situations  which  are  not  worth  saving.  Mark  was 
amazed — and  amused ;  but  he  felt  very  awkward.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  Miss  Archdale  had  gone  out  of 
her  way  to  distinguish  him,  but  she  had  never  done  it 
so  openly,  or  at  another  man's  expense.  And  Lawrence, 
of  all  men !  He  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her,  whether 
to  take  it  seriously  or  to  laugh  it  off. 

Miss    Archdale    remained    standing   by    Mark   in    the 


8  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

recess  of  the  balcony  window,  a  little  apart  from  the 
coming  and  going  under  the  central  arch.  She  was  so 
tall  that  her  head  was  on  a  level  with  his  shoulder,  and 
so  handsome  that  he  could  not  help  feeling  gratified  as 
well  as  amused.  It  was  a  night  of  mid- July,  moonlit 
but  overcast,  and  very  warm :  the  day-long  sunshine  lin- 
gered in  the  balmy  air.  Framed  between  high  stone 
traceries  lay  the  dim  verdure  of  the  garden,  its  infinite 
intricacy  of  beaded  turf  and  bloomy  spray  all  hushed 
under  the  infinite  monotone  of  twilight.  Miss  Archdale, 
slowly  fanning  herself  with  a  lace-like  silver  fan,  was  in 
harmony  with  this  nocturne,  for  over  her  gray  dress  she 
wore  a  silver  scarf,  embroidered  in  wave-like  ripplings 
of  moonstone  and  pearl.  She  wore  no  other  jewels  at 
all  except  a  moonstone  fillet  which  bound  up  her  lustrous 
hair. 

"Why  aren't  you  dancing,  Mr.  Sturt?" 

"I  was  enjoying  a  little  interlude,  Miss  Archdale." 

"Philosophizing?     Criticizing?" 

"Merely  admiring." 

"Ah !"  said  Maisie,  glancing  down. 

The  trivial  sensuous  delicacy  of  the  barcarolle  flowed 
out  past  them  into  the  night  like  a  warm  tide. 

"Shall  we  dance  this?"  Mark  asked,  shaking  himself 
out  of  the  dreamy  mood  which  the  music  or  her  manner 
seemed  to  be  deliberately  calling  up.  "I  am  no  hand  at 
all  these  Russian  or  pseudo-Russian  dances,  but  I  think 
I  could  manage  a  waltz.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  with  so 
much  scorn?  You  should  not  snub  a  man  when  he  is 
doing  his  best." 

"Because  you  dance  very  well  and  you  know  it.  I 
hate  affectation  from — from  people  like  you." 

"My  dear  child" — the  phrase  was  jerked  out  of  Mark 
by  surprise — "I  danced  when  I  was  five-and-twenty — 
when  I  was  Harry  Forester's  age!" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  9 

"I  watched  you  with  Mrs.  Ferrier  to-night.  No,  I 
won't  waltz  with  you,  but  you  can  take  me  down  the 
garden  if  you  like — do  you  like?" 

"Immensely,"  said  Mark,  pulling  at  his  mustache.  And 
he  strolled  at  her  side  down  the  steps  and  over  the  gray 
lawn.  Plenty  of  other  couples  were  wandering  about 
near  the  house,  but  she  led  him  on  away  from  them  all, 
beyond  rosebeds  and  shrubberies,  through  a  latched  gate 
into  the  fringes  of  a  beechwood  and  out  again  on  fields. 
Like  a  secondary  daylight  the  moon  from  behind  vague 
clouds  diffused  a  gray  illumination  over  the  undulating 
countryside — mown  hay,  belts  of  covert,  the  rare  lamps 
of  a  distant  village,  the  woody  bourne  of  hills ;  and  from 
the  shadow  of  the  beech  forest  there  stretched  away  the 
silver  levels  of  a  lake.  Grey  Shorten,  the  gaunt  old 
Georgian  house,  was  blotted  out  with  all  its  festal  lamps 
behind  trees :  faint  and  far  off  the  violins  wailed  on 
muted  strings,  fitfully  audible  over  the  lisp  of  ripples 
among  reeds  at  their  feet. 

At  the  water's  edge  the  gray  roots  of  an  alder,  gripping 
the  soil  like  a  wizard's  hand,  made  a  natural  seat,  and 
Maisie  threw  herself  into  it,  leaning  her  shoulders  against 
its  clustered  stem,  while  Mark  sat  down  on  the  bank, 
keeping  a  careful  distance,  pulling  at  his  mustache.  He 
was  amused,  he  was  flattered,  but  in  some  odd  angle  of 
his  mind  he  was  sorry.  His  irretrievable  feeling  was 
that  Miss  Archdale  ought  to  have  been  kept  in  order  by 
her  mother  or  her  nurse.  Failing  these,  what  was  Dodo 
Ferrier  doing  to  let  her  wear  her  dresses  so  low?  Be- 
fore she  got  her  scarf  he  had  seen  her  and  wondered 
whether  she  understood  the  force  or  nature  of  the  in- 
stincts to  which  she  played  when  she  put  on  those  gossa- 
mer bodices  which  seemed  constantly  to  be  in  danger  of 
slipping  off  her  beautiful  shoulders.  Other  women  knew 
what  they  were  about.  But  over  the  lure  of  her  splen- 


10  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

did  dresses  Maisie  looked  out  into  the  world  with  the 
gallant  recklessness  of  a  boy. 

"Your  brother  has  been  telling  me  you're  off  moun- 
taineering again.  When  do  you  go?" 

"In  a  fortnight." 

"Really?  I  read  your  book  about  the  Andes.  I  liked 
it,  but  you  amused  me." 

"Did  I?    How?" 

"By  your  laborious  struggle  to  give  all  the  credit  to 
your  brother  and  none  to  yourself." 

"Ha,  ha!" 

"Modesty  is  so  rare  nowadays,"  Maisie  pursued,  unruf- 
fled by  Mr.  Sturt's  hearty  laughter,  "and  family  affection 
is  even  rarer,  so  that  I  couldn't  help  being  edified  by 
your  display  of  both.  Really  you  wrote  as  though  Cap- 
tain Sturt  dragged  you  about  on  a  string!" 

"So  he  did,"  said  Mark,  still  amused.  "He's  a  much 
older  hand  at  it  than  I  am.  He  was  in  the  Himalayas 
five  years  ago,  and  New  Zealand  before  that,  when  I 
couldn't  get  away.  You  mustn't  forget  that  he's  a  hunter 
by  profession,  whereas  I'm  only  a  tradesman." 

"Yes,  you  look  it !" 

"I  know  I  do,  though  it's  unkind  of  you  to  say  so. 
We  can't  all  be  six  feet  three  of  wire  and  whipcord!" 
Mark  Sturt  was  big  and  heavily  built,  turning  the  scale 
at  fourteen  stone,  but  his  weight  lay  in  his  bones:  a 
life  of  hard  work  and  hard  play  had  left  little  flesh  to 
spare  on  his  body,  and  it  never  took  him  long  to  train 
down  to  the  finest  point  of  condition.  But  he  enjoyed 
teasing  Miss  Archdale,  a  privilege  granted  to  few. 
"That's  why  I  didn't  get  up  Aconcagua,  as  you  must 
know  if  you've  read  my  book." 

"Your  book  leaves  a  great  deal  to  the  imagination. 
Why  didn't  you  get  up  Aconcagua?  I  asked  Captain 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  11 

Sturt  and  he  said,  'That  is  Mark's  usual  luck.'  What  is 
your  usual  luck,  Mr.  Sturt?" 

"Haven't  an  idea,"  said  Mark.  He  was  getting  angry 
but  he  did  not  show  it.  "But  I'll  tell  you  with  pleasure 
why  I  didn't  get  to  the  top.  I  had  four  shots  at  it  and 
went  sick  regularly  every  time  in  the  high  altitudes.  One 
can  play  that  game  indefinitely,  but  it's  not  fair  to  the 
others,  so  one  had  to  chuck  it  and  return  to  the  base. 
Hate  it?  Naturally  I  hated  it,  but  one  accepts  one's 
limitations." 

"Does  one?  Do  you?  I  should  have  thought  you 
were  one  of  those  who  go  on  till  they  drop." 

"Are  you  satirical?" 

"No,  it's  Pax,"  said  Maisie,  smiling.  "I  really  mean 
it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mark,  flushing  in  spite  of  himself. 
"But  I  must  say  that  is  a  lady's  point  of  view.  When 
one  can't  eat  and  can't  sleep  and  can't  stand,  the  one 
thing  left  is  to  clear  out  of  the  way." 

"And  now  you're  going  to  Colorado.  How  long  shall 
you  be  away?" 

"Five  months  or  so.  I  must  get  back  before  next  ses- 
sion. I  paired  before  Easter,  but  I  daren't  pair  again. 
Gatton  is  very  good  to  me,  but  even  Gatton  has  fitful 
recollections  of  my  £400  a  year." 

Gatton  was  the  big  industrial  constituency  which  had 
twice  returned  Mark  Sturt  to  Parliament. 

"Five  months  is  a  long  time.  What  shall  you  do  out 
there — go  down  the  Grand  Canon  ?" 

Mark  assented.  "And  there's  always  a  sporting  chance 
of  a  row  in  Mexico." 

"What  a  hopeful  tone !  Then  perhaps  you  would  never 
come  back  at  all,"  said  Maisie.  "Well,  I'm  going  away, 
too:  I  wonder  if  I  could  manage  to  get  up  an  adventure. 


12  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

It  would  be  a  jolly  change.  I'm  so  sick  and  tired  of 
everything  that  it  couldn't  be  a  change  for  the  worse." 

"Abroad?" 

"No,  I'm  going  down  to  a  cottage  on  the  Dorsetshire 
coast.  It  used  to  be  a  coastguard's  cottage,  but  it  has 
been  empty  for  years,  and  no  laborer  will  live  there  be- 
cause it's  so  lonely:  I  bought  it  out  and  out  for  a  song 
and  had  it  put  in  order,  then  I  got  tired  of  it  and  I've 
never  been  near  it  since.  It's  a  queer  little  place,  all 
stone  and  mortar,  at  the  top  of  a  crack  between  two 
chalk  downs,  and  there  isn't  another  building  in  sight — 
nothing  but  the  cleft  of  the  hills  behind  it,  and  a  steep 
narrow  glen  running  down  to  an  immense  waste  of  sea. 
No  one  comes  because  there's  no  beach — only  a  tiny 
strip  of  gray  sand  in  between  cliffs :  and  there's  nothing 
whatever  to  do  but  listen  to  the  gulls  and  the  waves  and 
the  wind  in  the  trees  behind  you." 

"But  you  don't  seriously  think  of  staying  in  a  place 
like  that? — Or  perhaps  you  didn't  mean  to  go  alone?" 

"I  shan't  take  even  a  maid.  The  cottage  is  all  on  one 
floor  and  I  didn't  put  much  furniture  in :  just  a  few 
chairs  and  pots  and  pans  and  a  new  kitchen  range.  I 
shall  drive  myself  over  with  a  hamper  from  Ushant,  the 
nearest  station:  and  when  I've  eaten  my  way  through  it 
I  shall  wire  to  the  Stores  for  another  one.  You  can  get 
fruit  and  eggs  and  vegetables  from  a  farmhouse  two 
miles  off." 

"What  a  wonderful  plan,"  said  Mark,  amused :  "and 
shall  you  do  your  own  cooking  and  dusting?" 

"I  shall :  do  you  think  I'm  not  competent  ?" 

"I'm  sure  you  are  if  you  say  so.  But  I  should  never 
have  guessed  it." 

"Ah !  You  mustn't  believe  all  your  brother  says  about 
me.  I  like  Lawrence,  you  know:  if  I  were  a  man  I 
should  want  to  sit  and  smoke  with  him  in  the  small 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  13 

hours."  Mark  was  silent,  chiefly  from  want  of  interest, 
partly  because  he  did  not  care  to  discuss  his  brother. 
"But  you  can't  be  friends  with  him  if  you're  a  woman. 
Lawrence  is  a  raffine."  Mark  opened  his  eyes :  again  he 
wondered  if  she  understood  what  she  was  saying.  "How- 
ever, I  didn't  bring  you  down  here  to  discuss  Lawrence. 
I  had  something  exceedingly  serious  to  say  to  you.  Law- 
rence isn't  serious.  You  are,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Sturt?" 

"Very,"  said  Mark.  He  had  no  idea  what  was  coming. 
Far  off  in  the  woods  a  melancholy  "Hoo!  hoo!"  pro- 
claimed the  hunting  vigil  of  an  owl.  Some  small  un- 
known animal  rustled  among  the  rushes  near  at  hand : 
by  the  tiny  splash  that  followed  it  was  probably  a  vole. 
The  stable  clock  at  Shotton  was  striking  two.  Chimes 
at  midnight,  after  all! 

"How  hot  it  is!"  said  Maisie.  "It  feels  as  though 
the  moonlight  were  warm."  She  leaned  forward,  letting 
the  scarf  drop  from  her  throat  as  she  touched  Mark's 
arm  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  At  that  moment  the 
moon  came  sailing  out  of  a  cloud  and  a  great  glow  of  pearl 
shone  over  the  lake,  bleaching  the  gold  of  her  hair  to 
silver,  and  painting  leaf-shadows  in  sepia  on  the  ivory 
of  her  bare  shoulders,  so  classically  strong  and  pure 
above  the  gray  mist  of  her  dress.  Mark  held  his  breath. 
He  could  not  read  far  into  those  brilliant  melancholy 
eyes,  but  this  he  read,  that  if  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
she  would  submit.  The  fine  social  mask!  He  had  re- 
garded that  phrase  as  a  wayside  bloom  of  Lawrence 
Sturt's  exotic  imagination,  but  it  recurred  now.  In  the 
last  fortnight  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Arch- 
dale  in  the  easy  intimacy  of  a  country  house,  and  he  had 
watched  her  with  other  men :  and  she  was  friends  with 
them  all — friends  with  Harry  Forester  who  adored  her, 
and  friends  with  Charles  Ferrier  who  adored  his  wife. 
"She  is  like  a  boy,  and  I  love  her  for  it,"  he  had  heard 


14  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Mrs.  Ferrier  say,  in  whose  judgment  he  had  faith:  and 
which  was  the  mask — that  brotherly  good  humor,  or  the 
strange  stern  passion  that  looked  out  of  Miss  Archdale's 
eyes  to-night?  In  some  obscure  way  she  moved  him  to 
pity.  She  was  young  after  all,  not  yet  four  and  twenty, 
and  the  bloom  and  perfume  of  youth  still  clung  to  her, 
intoxicating  his  senses  but  invoking  his  chivalry.  And 
yet  what  folly!  Can  there  be  any  bloom  left  on  a  beau- 
tiful woman  whose  eyes  are  as  reckless  as  Maisie's  were 
under  their  profound  and  brilliant  melancholy?  Law- 
rence Sturt,  a  very  gallant  cavalier,  would  have  laughed 
him  to  scorn.  "Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee!" 
Sturt  felt  himself  stiffening  in  iron  resistance.  He  turned 
away  his  head. 

"Hallo !  Isn't  that  an  otter  splashing  about  under  the 
island  ?' 

"I  can't  see.  It  sounds  like  one."  Her  fingers  nestled 
into  the  palm  of  his  open  hand.  Sturt  wondered  what  on 
earth  to  say  next  and  why  he  was  behaving  so  churlishly. 
"Mr.  Sturt,  I'm  not  vain  as  women  go,  but  there  isn't 
another  man  at  Shotton  that  would  have  refused  to  kiss 
me  when  I — when  I  let  him.  Why — why  won't  you?" 

"May  I  kiss  you?" 

"If  you— if  you  like." 

His  answer  was  to  lay  the  lightest  of  kisses  on  her 
beautiful  wrist. 

"Not  my  hand,"  said  Maisie,  careless  and  bold. 

"It  would  not  be  fair,  my  dear,  from  me  to  you." 

"No — you  won't?"  She  was  apparently  surprised. 
"Don't  you  think  me  handsome?  I  don't,  I  hate  red 
hair,  but  most  people  do.  You  can  be  quite  frank,  I 
don't  care  much  one  way  or  the  other,  but  I  should  like 
to  know." 

"Extremely  handsome,"  said  Mark  gravely.  He  had 
begun  to  wonder  whether  he  was  not  asleep  and  dream- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  15 

ing,  but  at  all  events  it  was  a  relief  to  have  no  difficulty 
in  disposing  of  that  question.  "It's  profanation  to  call 
your  hair  red.  It  is  gold,  real  gold,  not  flax  or  mahogany. 
You  were  far  and  away  the  most  beautiful  lady  in  the 
room  to-night.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  much  of  a  judge, 
but  I  give  you  my  opinion,  since  you  ask  for  it,  for  what 
it's  worth." 

"I'm  glad."  She  leaned  down  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  clear,  dark  water  under  the  alder  tree.  "Altogether 
I'm  what  one  would  call  eligible,  highly  eligible,  amn't  I  ? 
One  can't  pretend  not  to  know  it.  So  many  men  have 
wanted  to  marry  me :  I  never  get  through  a  season  with- 
out a  lot  of  bother.  For  one  thing,  I've  really  rather  a 
lot  of  money  for  a  woman :  one  wouldn't  call  it  a  big 
fortune  for  a  man,  but  not  many  women  are  so  rich  and 
so  free.  It's  my  own :  I  could  chuck  it  in  the  sea  if  I 
liked — not  that  I  ever  should  like.  Money's  eminently 
useful.  An  ambitious  man  could  do  a  great  deal  with 
five  or  six  hundred  thousand  of  his  wife's  money  that 
was  not  tied  up  in  any  way.  If  I  married  I  should — I 
should  throw  it  all  into  the  common  stock.  Money  is 
never  worth  wrangling  over  and  I  certainly  couldn't  be 
bothered  with  a  separate  balance-sheet.  My  hus- 
band would  have  to  use  mine  in  and  out  with  his 
own.  Such  as  it  is,  it  would  be  useful  to  an  ambitious 
man — a  man  who  was  going  in,  say,  for  politics  or  any- 
thing like  that.  I  suppose  it  isn't  precisely  true  that 
one  can  bribe  a  Whip.  Or  is  it?  There  is  a  line 
somewhere  but  it's  one  of  those  lines  that  outsiders  can't 
draw." 

Mark,  from  the  depths  of  his  confusion,  heard  himself 
gravely  saying  that  one  could  do  a  good  deal  by  judicious 
contribution  to  party  funds. 

"Anyhow  that  doesn't  signify,  that's  not  the  main 
point."  She  seemed  to  brush  it  impatiently  aside.  "Ex- 


16  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

cept  that  it  makes  me  more  independent :  too  much  so,  I 
suppose.  I  never  have  cared  a  snap  of  the  fingers  for 
other  people's  opinion  except  the  two  or  three  that  I 
liked,  Dodo  Ferrier's,  and  Ph — one  or  two  others',  and 
yours." 

"Mine !" 

"Yes,  I  like  you.  Didn't  you  know  I  liked  you?  I've 
always  liked  you.  You're  different  from  most  of  the 
men  I  know.  I  liked  you  best  of  all  just  now  when  you 
refused  me.  It  was  characteristic  of  you,  that:  you're 
good  at  refusing.  Oh,  I  know!  that  is  the  sort  of  thing 
that  women  always  want  to  know,  and  somehow  or  other 
they  generally  contrive  to  get  hold  of  their  facts.  There 
are  no  women  in  your  life,  are  there?  That — that 
is  one  reason  why  I've  been  so  bold:  I  could  not  have 
said  all  this  to  most  men,  because  it  might  not  have 
been  fair  to  some  other  woman.  But  you're  like  me  in 
that,  you  haven't  any  ties,  not  even  near  relations, 
except  Lawrence,  who  doesn't  count :  you  and  I  can 
do  with  our  lives  what  we  like.  If  I've  counted  the 
cost  all  round  and  I'm  prepared  to  pay  it,  there's  no 
practical  reason  why  I  shouldn't  do  what  I'm  doing 
now." 

"But  what  are  you  doing? — I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
honestly  I  don't  understand." 

"I  should  have  thought  it  was  clear  enough.  Too 
clear!"  Her  laugh  was  only  faintly  rueful.  "But  I'm 
not  afraid  of  plain  English.  Mr.  Sturt,  will  you  marry 
me?" 

"Will  I—?" 

"Wait.  I  don't  want  an  ordinary  marriage,  Eaton 
Square  and  the  Riviera  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Will  you 
marry  me  secretly  before  you  go  to  America  and  come 
with  me  to  Ushant  for  a  week?" 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Mark  under  his  breath 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  17 

Her  words  could  have  but  one  meaning,  did  she  ima- 
gine that  he  would  be  blind  to  it  ?  Well,  she  was  young, 
and  the  world  is  hard  on  women.  He  subdued  his 
anger  before  he  found  an  answer,  the  only  possible  an- 
swer in  that  impossible  position.  "My  dear,  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  this.  You  have  no  .brother,  let  me  take 
a  brother's  place :  you're  so  young,  you  don't — I'm  sure 
you  don't — know  what  you're  doing." 

"Oh !    I  deserve  this." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  wrong?" 

"Yes,  wrong." 

"You  must  speak  the  truth,  Maisie." 

"I  was  brought  up  to  speak  the  truth."  She  stood 
facing  him  in  the  moonlight  with  her  direct  level  eyes. 
"I  am  innocent.  Oh !  I'm  not  good  like  some  women. 
I  dare  say  I  might,  if  I  were  tempted,  fall :  it's  hard  to 
say  what  one  would  do  if  one  were  tempted,  because 
certain  forms  of  temptation  are  so — so  heavy.  But  if  I 
came  to  grief,  and  if  I  were  in  danger  of  discovery,  I'd 
face  discovery.  I  had  that  hammered  into  me  when  I 
was  a  child,  that  if  you  do  wrong  you  must  stand  up  to 
your  punishment.  I'm  doing  wrong  now."  Mark  be- 
lieved it,  she  looked  as  haughty  as  Lucifer.  "But,  when 
the  reckoning  comes,  I  shall  face  it.  I'm  not  a  coward." 

"I  can  only  beg  your  pardon." 

"No,  it  was  my  own  fault:  I've  compromised  myself 
so  deeply  that  you  think  I'm  capable  of  anything.  But 
indeed  I'm  not." 

"My  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  insult  you.  I've  seen  more 
of  life  than  you  have,  and  I  know  how  hard  it  can  be  on 
a  woman.  I  thought  you  were  a  young  thing  driven 
into  the  toils." 

"And  so  I  am,"  said  Maisie,  trembling  and  bending 
down  her  head.  "But  not  the  toils  of  a  farthing  scan- 
dal." 


18  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Let  us  talk  this  over,"  said  Sturt  quietly.  "Sit  down 
again :  and  let  me  put  your  scarf  on,  or  you'll  catch  cold." 
He  returned  to  his  place  at  her  side :  he  showed  no  sign 
of  emotion  except  that  he  was  still  rather  white  and 
that  his  manner  was  both  more  gentle  and  more  formal 
than  it  had  been.  "You  asked  me  to  marry  you  privately 
and  go  down  with  you  to  Ushant.  Why?" 

"That  I  can't  explain." 

"Girls  of  your  age  often  have  romantic  fancies."  He 
turned  his  head  away.  "Are  you — forgive  me,  dear, 
but  I  can't  think  of  any  likelier  explanation,  and  though 
I'm  not  a  romantic  figure,  one  knows  what  girls  will 
do  in  the  way  of  idealizing  a  fellow.  I  won't  fail  you, 
if  you'll  trust  me.  You  haven't  by  any  chance  been 
fancying  yourself  in  love  with  me,  have  you?" 

"I  thought  you  would  say  that.  No,  I'm  not  offended ! 
You  can  say  anything  you  like.  But,  Mr.  Sturt,  think 
for  a  moment !  I'm  not  a  young  girl — I'm  not  so  young 
as  you  imagine :  at  all  events,  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of 
the  world.  Do  you  think  a  woman  like  me — I  am  proud 
and  I've  always  been  independent — could  be  so  swept 
away  by  a  twopenny  halfpenny  schoolgirl  fit  of  sentiment 
as  to  deliver  herself  up  to  any  man's  mercy  bound  hand 
and  foot — as  I'm  at  yours?" 

"I  felt  an  awful  fool  for  asking.  But  I  was  bound 
to  say  it,  Maisie." 

"You  couldn't  have  put  it  more  nicely."  She  looked  at 
him  with  a  fleeting  laugh  as  he  had  seen  her  look  at  Mrs. 
Ferrier:  then  with  a  swift  return  to  seriousness,  "Well, 
here  are  the  facts,  so  far  as  I  can  give  you  them.  I'm 
absolutely  sick  of  my  life,  so  sick  of  it  that  I  don't  much 
care  what  happens  to  me :  I'm  in  difficulties  which  I  can't 
describe  to  you  or  to  any  one:  and  this  marriage  is  my 
only  way  out.  I  came  to  you  because  I  like  and  trust 
you  better  than  any  other  man  I  know,  and  because," 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  19 

her  voice  faltered  but  she  steadied  it,  "I  had  a — an  in- 
tuition that,  for  the  very  short  and  inexacting  period 
I've  named,  you  might  be  considered  available." 

"Why?" 

"In  plain  English,  I  know  you  don't  want  to  marry 
any  one.  Your  brother  and  Mrs.  Ferrier  say  you'll 
never  marry.  You're  too  fond  of  sport  and  politics  and 
going  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  But  what  I  offer 
would  not  put  a  period  to  your  wanderings :  there  would 
be  the  one  week  at  Ushant,  which  I  suppose  from  all 
one's  ever  heard  of  men  you  would  enjoy,  and  after 
that  you  would  be  free  to  forget  me." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  marriage  for  a  week  may 
involve  one  in  liabilities  which  can't  be  forgotten?" 

"How  do  you  mean? — Oh!  yes,  I've  thought  of  that. 
But  I'd  take  the  risk." 

"In  that  case  the  marriage  would  have  to  be  made 
public." 

"Not  unless  you  chose.  I  take  all  the  risk.  If  it  in- 
volved my  own  social  smash  I  shouldn't  much  care.  I'm 
so  tired  of  it  all!  My  own  friends  would  stick  to  me 
whatever  happened  and  I  shouldn't  care  a  button  for  the 
rest.  One  ought  to  value  one's  good  name,  I  suppose, 
but  it  doesn't  matter  much  that  I  can  see.  Anyhow  that's 
my  own  look  out.  For  you  there  would  be  no  drag,  no 
responsibility  after  you  left  me  at  Ushant:  except  of 
course  that  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  marry  anybody  else 
—I  can't  help  that." 

Mark  wondered  if  she  imagined  that  he  could  remain 
indifferent  to  what  happened  to  his  wife.  But  it  was 
not  worth  while  to  argue  the  point.  "Suppose  when  my 
week  was  up  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  America?" 

"Didn't  want  to  leave  me,  do  you  mean?  Oh!  that 
would  be  a  matter  for  arrangement.  If  you  wanted  to 
make  me  your  wife  publicly  and  permanently  you  would 


20  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

have  a  legal  right  to  enforce  your  wishes,  and  I  should 
respect  them.  I  never  shuffle  out  of  a  bargain.  I  give 
you  free  leave  to  make  the  marriage  public  and  to  com- 
pel me  to  take  your  name  and  to  live  with  you.  It's 
'Heads  I  win,  tails  you  lose'  for  you.  I  want  it  to  be  so. 
If  you  do  this  for  me  I  want  you  to  get  all  you  can  out 
of  it. — If  you  come  to  that,  I  might  not  want  to  leave 
you." 

"What  I  cannot  conceive  is  what  you  yourself  get  out 
of  it." 

"Because  you  don't  know  the  conditions." 

"Tell  me  them."  She  shook  her  head.  "I  never  heard 
such  rubbish  in  my  life!"  said  Mark  angrily.  He  tried 
again.  "If  the  ceremony  is  all  you  require,  why  on 
earth  didn't  you  go  to  Harry  Forester?  Eccentric  as 
your  offer  is,  I  feel  sure  he  would  jump  at  it." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Sturt " 

"Don't  do  that."  Docile,  she  let  fall  her  hands.  He 
realized  then  to  what  extent  she  was  at  his  mercy  and 
for  his  life  he  could  not  repress  a  start.  "Maisie,  I 
thought  you  never  felt  shy." 

"No :  well,  I  don't  often  blush,  but  when  I  do  it  is  an 
affaire.  Oh,  Mr.  Sturt,  be  merciful!"  Maisie  murmured. 
She  was  still  scarlet,  forehead  and  cheek  and  throat,  her 
modesty  was  as  inexplicable  as  her  boldness,  but  as  her 
blush  ebbed  she  rallied  her  courage  to  reply.  "Say,  be- 
cause I  wasn't  keen  on  marrying  a  man  who — cared." 

"Do  you  mean — ?"  Mark  began.  His  voice  was  hoarse : 
he  stopped,  cleared  his  throat,  and  resumed  rather  more 
deliberately  than  before,  "Do  you  mean  that  you  ad- 
dressed yourself  to  me  because  I  wasn't  in  love  with 
you?" 

"Does  that  seem  strange,  to  a  man?" 

"I  suppose  a  young  girl  never  does  know  anything 
about  anything." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  21 

'Thank  you.     Perhaps   you   wouldn't   mind  explain- 


ing?' 


"I  will.  Don't  you  see  that  whereas,  under  these 
very  peculiar  conditions,  Forester,  who  is  a  thor- 
ough good  sort,  would  marry  you  for  love,  I  could 
only  be  supposed  to  marry  you  from  a  less  worthy 
motive  ?" 

"But  I'd  rather  have  your  indifference  than  Harry's 
love." 

"Good  heavens !"  said  Mark  under  his  breath. 

Her  candor  defeated  him  because  he  could  not  tell 
whether  it  sprang  from  the  cynicism  of  her  seasons  in 
town  or  from  pure  nursery  innocence.  She  jested  with 
the  great  veiled  powers  like  a  child. 

He  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking  across 
the  fields  to  the  twinkling  lamps  of  the  village  and  the 
low  bourne  of  hills.  The  sough  of  the  dawn- wind  shook 
through  the  tree-tops  and  over  the  short,  severed  stalks 
of  the  hay.  It  seemed  a  long  while  since  he  had  stood 
watching  the  dancers  and  indulging  a  sentimental  re- 
gret for  youth  and  its  romance.  Now  adventure  had 
come  to  him,  as  it  does  come  sometimes,  in  middle  life, 
to  those  who  think  they  are  safe  over  the  fence  forever: 
a  wild  adventure  which  no  sane  man  could  take  seri- 
ously, yet  mixed  with  practical  considerations  which  no 
sane  man  could  overlook.  For  Miss  Archdale  had  great 
possessions,  Lawrence  had  not  overstated  her  material 
advantages :  richer  than  himself,  many  years  younger, 
still  in  the  freshness  and  fame  of  her  beauty,  if  he  mar- 
ried her  there  was  not  a  man  in  his  set  who  would  not 
envy  him  his  luck.  Her  secret?  Some  cobweb  mys- 
tery, to  be  coaxed  out  of  her  at  his  leisure :  at  all  events 
he  would  have  staked  his  life  on  its  being  nothing  dis- 
honorable. If  he  married  her  and  declared  the  marriage 
he  could  afford  to  loosen  his  grip  on  Gatton  and  its  trad- 


22  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

ing  ventures  and  to  assure  his  footing  in  the  political 
world. 

And  was  that  an  argument  to  be  taken  seriously? 
Mark  smiled  into  his  mustache.  No:  her  material  ad- 
vantages inspired  in  him  nothing  but  a  faint  recoil  of 
distaste.  Nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  touch 
her  money.  He  was  too  self-reliant,  or  too  fastidious, 
to  care  to  accept  more  than  he  gave.  It  would  have  been 
different  if  he  had  loved  her,  but  he  did  not  love  her, 
not  at  all :  like  many  men  who  know  little  of  women 
he  had  an  ill-defined  poetic  ideal  of  female  perfection, 
and  if  any  woman  could  have  reached  his  standard 
Maisie  certainly  did  not.  Remained  only  to  say  no  po- 
litely :  to  explain  to  her  that  a  middle-aged  politician  does 
not  conduct  his  private  life  in  the  spirit  of  a  French 
comedy!  She  was  shrewd  enough  if  she  would  but  open 
her  eyes :  incredibly  reckless,  but  strong,  in  her  detached 
take-it-or-leave-it  attitude.  In  five  minutes  he  could  be 
quit  of  her  without  ill-feeling  or  much  embarrassment 
on  either  side.  Mark  wondered  if  she  would  then  trans- 
fer her  offer  to  another  man :  he  knew  not  a  few  who 
would  have  jumped  at  it,  with  or  without  the  half-mil- 
lion which  she  was  prepared  to  fling  into  the  scale.  How 
cruelly  she  would  suffer  if  she  fell  into  the  wrong  hands ! 
But  no,  she  could  not  be  allowed  to  go  on  risking  her 
happiness:  she  must  be  brought  to  book,  Dodo  Ferrier 
must  be  called  in  if  necessary. 

Mark  roused  himself  out  of  a  long  silence  and  turned 
with  twenty  convincing  arguments  on  his  lips.  He  could 
not  do  it.  No  honest  man  could  do  it.  She  would  only 
be  unhappy  if  he  did.  It  was  midsummer  madness,  there 
could  be  no  earthly  reason  for  it,  she  must  tell  him  or  tell 
Dodo  Ferrier.  "My  dear " 

He  stopped  short. 

"Well,  what's  my  fate  to  be — is  it  yes  or  no?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  23 

"It  is  yes." 

"You  don't  mean  it  ?" 

"By  heaven  I  do,"  said  Mark.  He  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  but  why — why?"  Maisie  murmured,  docile  in 
his  clasp.  "I  didn't  think  you  would.  You  weren't  go- 
ing to.  You  were  going  to  say  no." 

"Was  I  ?  In  that  case  I  must  have  changed  my  mind. 
But  I  think  you're  wrong:  I  don't  believe  I  ever  meant 
to  refuse,  no,  not  for  a  moment.  I  always  take  a  sport- 
ing offer,  and  yours,  for  a  gloomy  middle-aged  business 
man,  has  all  the  charm  of  the  unexpected.  You  recall 
the  dreams  of  my  vanished  youth."  He  touched  with 
his  lips  her  closed  eyelids,  ivory  blinds  drawn  down  over 
the  brilliance  of  her  eyes.  His  own,  she  resigned  herself, 
a  city  undefended :  and  the  entire  current  of  Mark's  be- 
ing moved  towards  her  in  flood.  It  was  not  love  but 
it  was  everything  short  of  love,  and  prudence  and  com- 
mon sense  could  no  more  stand  against  it  than  a  child's 
barrier  of  sticks  and  sand  can  oppose  the  incoming 
tide  .  .  . 

The  stable  clock  was  striking  three :  the  midnight  hours 
were  ended.  "Oh,  how  late  it  is !"  said  Maisie,  startled. 
"Let  me  go  now,  Mr.  Sturt."  Mark  released  her  in- 
stantly. He  had  not  kissed  her  again. 

She  stood  up.  Mark  too  pulled  himself  to  his  feet, 
not  without  an  effort:  feelings  that  had  let  him  alone 
for  thirteen  busy  years  were  at  their  narcotic  work  to- 
night, sapping  his  energy.  The  love  of  beauty  ran  in 
his  blood:  except  by  travel,  he  had  scarcely  ever  in- 
dulged it:  but  it  is  a  tenacious  passion,  and  mountains 
and  stars  cannot  satisfy  it  forever.  "Time  to  go  back, 
what?"  he  said,  shaking  himself  free.  "Getting  on  for 
dawn,  isn't  it?  You  must  have  cut  half  a  dozen  dances 
by  now,  and  you've  had  no  supper."  Over  the  glimmer- 


24  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

ing  windiness  of  field  and  forest  the  flush  of  dawn  was 
at  war  with  the  fading  moonlight,  and  the  air  was  full 
of  the  chill  scent  of  grass  and  budding  leaf:  from  the 
nearest  patch  of  covert  came  the  faint  piping  cry  of  a 
bird. 

He  gathered  up  her  fan,  her  gloves,  her  handkerchief, 
and  fell  into  step  at  her  side :  betrothed  lovers  on  the 
eve  of  marriage,  and  almost  as  much  a  riddle  to  them- 
selves as  to  one  another.  Mark  Sturt,  who  should  have 
known  better,  was  fighting  off  second  thoughts  in  true 
gambler's  vein :  he  set  his  teeth  and  swore  that  he  would 
not  repent  till  it  was  too  late  to  retreat.  And  Miss  Arch- 
dale  like  a  frightened  child  reflected,  "I'm  riding  for  a 
fall,"  but  she  had  neither  power  nor  will  to  save  herself. 
She  was  in  the  grip  of  heavy  forces,  and  she  did  not 
understand  them  well  enough  to  cope  with  them  in  any 
way. 

She  could  not  read  the  man  at  her  side.  She  could 
imagine  what  Forester  would  have  done,  the  handsome 
passionate  young  man.  She  would  have  had  to  satisfy  a 
far  more  exacting  claim,  but  Forester's  kisses  would  not 
have  made  her  blush.  Or  Lawrence  Sturt,  Mark's 
brother:  Lawrence  was  a  dangerous  combination  of 
voluptuary  and  cynic,  but  she  never  would  have  flinched 
before  him,  though  he  was  not  scrupulous  and  could  be 
cruel.  Mark  was  slower  and  colder,  and  ought  to  have 
been  easy  to  read,  and  yet  she  could  not  read  him.  The 
rather  heavy,  impassive  face,  the  shrewd  unrevealing 
eyes  and  easy  manner  offered  only  negative  qualities  for 
analysis,  and  he  had  an  inexhaustible  stock  of  silence: 
while  his  sense  of  humor  was  an  incalculable  element, 
for  she  could  not  always  tell  why  he  was  amused.  Law- 
rence Sturt  in  his  most  reckless  temper  could  not  have 
bent  her.  But  Mark  could  look  her  down  with  his  laugh- 
ing eyes. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  25 

They  came  out  on  the  edge  of  the  beechwood,  where 
the  gray  lawn,  deserted  now,  stretched  away  to  the 
lighted  windows  of  Shotton.  The  fleet  of  cloud  over- 
head was  beginning  to  be  shot  with  pink  and  mother-o'- 
pearl,  and  in  its  interstices  the  sky  was  of  a  deep  indigo 
blue.  "Whew!"  Mark  whistled  softly,  glancing  at  his 
watch.  "Ten  past  three.  Half  the  people  are  gone  home, 
you  know.  Unless  you  wish  to  be  either  cut  or  congrat- 
ulated, I  suggest  sneaking  in  through  the  library  win- 
dow and  going  straight  to  bed.  You  must  be  sleepy 
though  you  don't  look  it." 

"I  am  not  tired,"  said  Maisie,  smiling.  "But  I  will  if 
you  like." 

"Oh,  Griselda  wasn't  in  it,"  said  Mark.  "Very  good, 
I  shall  send  you  in  by  yourself.  Slip  through  the  shrub- 
beries and  go  up  the  little  staircase  of  the  library;  no 
one  will  see  you,  and  I  shall  say  you  had  a  headache  and 
went  off  early.  I  shall  stop  out  here  and  have  a  ciga- 
rette." 

Maisie  wondered  why  he  took  her  left  hand,  till  she 
found  that  he  was  holding  it  and  that  he  had  taken  the 
signet  ring  from  his  own  finger  to  slip  it  on  hers.  "You 
can  wear  it  round  your  neck  by  daylight,"  he  said  in 
his  clear  impassive  tones.  "But  I  swear  you  shall  wear 
it  on  your  hand  to-night.  Good  night,  my  dear." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Sturt." 

"Say  'Good  night,  Mark.' " 

"Good  night,  Mark." 


CHAPTER    II 
"The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame  .  .  .  ." 

MARK  STURT  did  not  require  much  sleep.  He 
smoked  his  three  cigarettes  in  the  beechwood,  and 
then  he  came  indoors  ten  minutes  before  sunrise,  when 
the  last  guests  were  saying  the  last  farewells.  In  reply 
to  the  reproaches  of  Mrs.  Ferrier  he  merely  regretted 
that  he  wasn't  a  dancing  man,  but  the  faint  scent  of  to- 
bacco that  clung  about  his  clothes  added  a  shameless 
footnote  to  his  apology;  and  when  she  asked  what  he 
had  done  with  Miss  Archdale  he  answered  without  any 
hesitation  that  she  had  complained  of  being  tired  and 
gone  off  early  to  bed.  Harry  Forester,  handsome  and 
haggard  after  a  wretched  evening,  had  placed  himself 
near  enough  to  hear  what  was  said,  and  Mark's  eye 
sparkled  as  he  saw  the  young  man's  face  clear ;  Forester 
was  the  right  side  of  thirty,  and  held  a  commission  in  a 
crack  cavalry  regiment;  the  odds  were  in  his  favor,  and 
yet  he  had  lost. 

Mark  went  to  bed,  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  he  laid  his 
head  down,  and  woke  again  at  half -past  seven  feeling 
very  fresh  and  cool,  and  with  a  hazy  impression  that 
something  had  happened  to  him  the  night  before.  He 
lay  back  on  his  pillows,  his  tanned  features  turned  to- 
wards the  splendor  of  eastern  sunlight.  There  was  a 
ring  round  Mark  Sturt's  throat  as  definite  as  if  it  had 
been  drawn  with  a  ruler;  the  skin  was  nut-brown  above 
it,  and  white  below.  Through  the  open  window  he  could 
see  tree-tops  waving,  green  against  blue,  and  the  song  of 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  27 

birds  came  in,  the  lively  din  of  sparrows,  the  thick 
treble  "Pretty  Dick!  Pretty  Dick!"  of  a  late  thrush. 
Mark  raised  his  left  hand  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  little 
finger,  where  a  band  of  bleached  flesh  marked  the  re- 
moval of  a  ring  worn  for  many  years.  Originally  his 
mother's  ring,  when  she  died  it  had  been  enlarged  for 
his  father,  and  from  his  hand  Mark  had  taken  it  when 
Arthur  Sturt  lay  in  his  coffin.  Mark  had  offered  it  to 
Lawrence,  but  Lawrence,  always  morbid  in  his  shrink- 
ing from  death,  had  refused  it  with  a  shudder,  and 
Mark  had  worn  it  ever  since.  It  was  so  small  for  him 
that  he  could  hardly  get  it  off,  but  it  was  very  loose  for 
Maisie  Archdale's  third  finger.  Mark  wondered  whether 
she  would  have  liked  diamonds  better  than  the  old  worn 
ring,  with  the  falcon  crest  of  his  mother's  family,  and 
the  motto:  FORS  L'HONNEUR.  Would  she  guess  that  it 
had  been  the  symbol  of  an  older  romance?  If  it  had  not 
been  for  that  band  of  shrunken  flesh  on  his  finger,  Mark 
would  have  been  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  dreamed 
the  whole  affair. 

But,  if  it  was  not  a  dream,  what  did  it  all  mean? 

Seven-thirty  a.m.  is  the  time  of  times  for  second 
thoughts.  Mark  clasped  his  arms  behind  his  head  and 
deliberately  challenged  them,  and  they  came  thick  and 
fast.  He  was  thirty-five,  a  sportsman,  a  politician  with 
a  safe  seat  in  the  House,  and  sole  proprietor  of  the  Gat- 
ton  ironworks,  a  large  business  in  the  northern  Midlands 
which  throve  unfailingly  even  in  the  slack  times  after 
the  war;  till  within  the  last  year  or  so  Gatton  had  ab- 
sorbed most  of  his  energies,  and  even  now,  though  he 
was  getting  to  leave  the  details  of  administration  more 
and  more  to  his  pearl  of  managers,  Sturt  kept  an  ex- 
tremely firm  hand  on  all  the  strings.  Unofficially  he  and 
Jack  Bennet  were  on  brotherly  terms,  and  Jack  was  free 
to  slap  Mark  on  the  back  (they  had  been  at  Stonyhurst 


28  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

together),  and  call  him  an  unpractical  ass,  but  when 
Jack  had  finished  grumbling  he  did  as  he  was  bidden, 
and  when  Mr.  Sturt  betook  himself  to  the  Andes  it  was 
on  the  distinct  understanding  that,  Socialism  or  no  So- 
cialism, Gatton  would  continue  to  be  run  on  his 
lines.  Trade,  sport,  politics,  such  was  the  sum  of  Mark 
Sturt's  life,  and  it  had  aged  him;  he  was  the  twin 
brother  of  Lawrence  Sturt,  but  he  looked  five  years 
older. 

Of  amorous  adventure  his  course  for  the  last  thirteen 
years  had  been  remarkably  free;  in  his  early  manhood 
he  had  had  one  disastrous  passion,  the  details  of  which 
were  not  known  even  to  his  brother,  and  no  woman  had 
ever  relit  the  fires  which  burnt  themselves  out  on  a 
French  battlefield.  Mark  thought  of  Gatton,  and  t^ien 
he  thought  of  Renee ;  Renee  in  her  young  slenderness,  a 
flower  sprung  from  the  French  bourgeoisie,  as  he  had 
first  seen  her  standing  in  her  father's  door  when  his  com- 
pany marched  into  her  village.  He  had  adored  her  with 
a  boy's  swift  visionary  fancy;  he  had  seen  her  not  half 
a  dozen  times  in  all;  the  last  time  he  saw  her  she  had 
been  lying  dead  four  or  five  days.  .  .  .  Mark  Sturt  at 
five  and  thirty  remembered  the  Mark  Sturt  of  two  and 
twenty  with  a  strange  impersonal  pity.  Ardent  fancies 
pass  away  in  time,  an^  if  Renee  had  lived  Mark  would 
certainly  have  forgotten  all  about  her  long  ago,  but  be- 
cause of  her  death  and  the  way  of  it  she  had  left  an 
imperishable  stamp  upon  his  life  and  nature.  How  hor- 
ribly he  had  suffered !  All  Lawrence  Sturt  knew,  then  or 
later,  was  that  his  brother  went  through  the  autumn  and 
the  winter  fighting  like  one  mad  with  the  blood-lust,  till 
a  heavy  wound  mercifully  laid  him  low.  For  years  after 
his  return  to  sanity  Mark  avoided  women  from  cowardice, 
as  a  man  avoids  whatever  may  bring  on  a  recurrence  of 
some  dreaded  pain. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  29 

And  now  after  all  these  years  a  woman  had  come 
into  his  life  again  and  challenged  him  to  an  adventure 
which  not  only  was  far  out  of  harmony  with  Gatton 
and  Westminster,  with  middle  age  and  common  sense, 
but  seemed  likely  to  end  in  some  renewal  of  the  old  tor- 
ment. Miss  Archdale's  intuition  had  not  been  at  fault; 
if  Mark  had  kept  out  of  her  way,  it  was  for  no  other 
reason  than  because  he  was  pretty  strongly  attracted  by 
her  and  afraid  of  her  power.  He  did  not  want  to  marry, 
still  less  to  fall  in  love — he  wanted  to  climb  another  peak 
or  two  with  Lawrence,  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of  Gat- 
ton,  perhaps  in  the  long  run  (a  half -acknowledged  ambi- 
tion) to  hold  office  in  a  Liberal  ministry.  Certainly 
there  was  no  face-reason  why  a  week  at  Ushant  should 
interfere  with  these  designs,  but  the  small  cold  voice 
of  common  sense  warned  Mark  that  he  was  taking  heavy 
risks,  and  that  passion,  like  fire,  is  a  good  servant  but 
a  bad  master.  With  something  of  a  cynical  smile  at  him- 
self, he  laid  a  finger  on  his  own  wrist;  no,  he  could  not 
think  of  Maisie  coolly.  If  she  could  set  his  blood  danc- 
ing now,  what  would  happen  at  Ushant? 

"What  will  Ushant  mean?"  Mark  said  to  himself 
sternly.  "Marriage  is  a  sacrament.  What  sort  of  sacra- 
ment will  this  marriage  be  for  you — or  for  her?  You 
know  pretty  well.  Does  she?  W^hat  right  have  you  to 
take  advantage  of  her?  What  if  you  were  to  hurt  her? 
If  after  thirteen  years'  immunity  you're  driven  to  make 
a  fool  of  yourself  again,  can't  you  do  it  on  cheaper  terms? 
No?  This  one  woman  and  no  other?  The  gambler  and 
the  sportsman  coming  uppermost,  is  it?"  He  knew  his 
own  weakness,  watchfully  guarded  and  veiled;  there 
was  a  vein  in  his  character  to  which  every  now  and  then 
the  high  throw  or  the  long  shot  made  an  irresistible  ap- 
peal. "But  the  thing  is  folly  and  worse  than  folly.  Your 
word  of  honor?  De  Trafford  would  tell  you  to  clear 


30  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

out  by  the  nine  o'clock  train  and  break  your  word  from 
a  safe  distance." 

Good  advice  is  always  cheap ;  but  the  cheapest  and 
most  drastic  variety  is  the  advice  a  man  gives  to  himself 
when  he  knows  he  is  not  going  to  take  it. 

Mark  looked  at  his  watch.  A  quarter-past  eight. 
"Breakfast  any  time  after  twelve,"  Charles  Ferrier  had 
said  cheerfully.  It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  Miss 
Archdale,  after  the  exhausting  emotions  of  the  evening 
— Mark  was  happily  confident  that  some  of  them  had 
been  exhausting — would  be  visible  yet  awhile,  but  to  be 
up  and  active  was  better  than  to  lie  and  think  of  Renee, 
or  of  Ushant ;  and  he  rang  his  bell.  Entered  decorously, 
within  the  minim  interval  of  time,  Henham,  the  ideal 
valet,  his  gray  hair  trimly  parted  and  his  whiskers  trimly 
barbered.  "Mr.  Lawrence  down  yet?"  asked  Mark,  tak- 
ing his  tea  and  his  letters.  Lawrence,  like  Mark,  was 
an  early  riser. 

"No,  sir,  not  yet." 

"Get  my  bath  ready.  ...  I  am  going  to  be  married 
on  Monday,  so  you  can  have  a  week's  holiday." 

The  latter  sentence  framed  itself  in  Mark's  mind, 
but  not  on  his  lips.  He  would  have  liked  to  see  what 
effect  it  had  on  the  serene  Henham,  but  he  really  couldn't 
flatter  himself  that  it  would  have  very  much.  "Yessir; 
will  your  suit-case  be  enough  for  you,  and  shall  I  pack 
your  golf  clubs?"  That  would  probably  be  Henham's 
reply.  Both  speeches,  however,  were  left  in  the  limbo 
of  the  unrealized :  Mark  did  not  even  go  s6  far  as  to  tell 
Henham  that  he  could  have  a  week's  holiday.  A  vein 
of  Celtic  caution  which  was  strongly  developed  in  him 
suggested  that  the  less  time  Henham  was  allowed  for 
practicing  the  curiosity  that  all  good  servants  feel  about 
their  masters'  movements,  the  better. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  31 

He  opened  his  letters,  and  was  amused  to  find  how 
little  interest  they  now  had  for  him.  The  gunsmith's 
specifications,  over  whose  delay  he  had  been  chafing  yes- 
terday, were  thrown  down  with  a  yawn.  A  note  from 
the  publishers  of  Climbs  in  the  Andes,  enclosing  a  check 
and  statement  of  accounts,  got  even  less  attention.  An 
illegible  scrawl  from  his  cousin,  Considine  Sturt,  in  North 
Russia,  held  him  for  a  moment,  because  at  first  glance 
he  read  it:  "Dear  Mark,  I  have  shot  thirteen  babies  in 
prams" — but  when  this  genial  infanticide  resolved  itself 
into  "thirteen  brace  of  snipe"  he  tossed  the  rest  aside 
and  got  up.  He  really  did  not  care  what  had  become  of 
Considine  and  his  erratic  pursuits. 

Mark  dressed  rapidly  but  carefully.  Although,  like 
most  of  his  class,  he  was  a  vigorous  dandy,  buying  ex- 
pensive clothes  and  bullying  his  tailors  if  they  did  not 
fit  him  to  a  hair,  he  did  not  usually  pay  much  attention 
to  the  smaller  details  of  his  toilet,  which  were  left  in 
Henham's  care ;  but  this  morning  Lawrence  himself  could 
not  have  been  more  imperative  or  more  exacting,  and 
when  he  had  finished  tying  his  tie  he  looked  himself  over 
in  the  glass,  he  who  did  not  care  as  a  rule  whether  there 
were  a  glass  in  the  room  or  no.  The  hall  clock  was 
striking  nine  as  he  came  downstairs.  Floods  of  golden 
sunshine  everywhere,  and  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  except  the 
servants :  even  Lawrence  apparently  was  taking  life  easy 
after  his  late  hours.  Declining  breakfast,  Mark  strolled 
out  on  the  lawn — the  gray  moonlit  lawn  of  last  night, 
striped  now  in  misty  sunshine.  In  the  borders  which 
had  been  so  full  of  mystery,  roses  and  early  hollyhocks 
and  sapphire  spires  of  lupin  stood  up  fresh  and  glitter- 
ing under  a  light  dew.  Mark  walked  up  and  down  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling  snatches  of  Spanish 
ballads  that  he  had  heard  the  Chilian  arrieros  sing  round 
their  camp  fires.  Whatever  was  to  come,  he  was  the 


32  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

gainer  by  a  glorious  night  and  morning;  by  this  dance 
of  blood  in  his  veins,  by  the  rush  of  health  and  energy 
and  vital  force  which  thrilled  him  to  his  finger-tips. 

"Yo  no  quiero  al  Conde  de  Cabra, 

Conde  de  Cabra,  triste  de  mi! 
Que  a  quien  quiero  solamente, 

Solamente,  es  ay!  a  ti. 
Arroz  con  leche " 

He  had  just  taken  out  his  pipe  when  he  caught  sight 
of  a  feminine  figure  passing  in  and  out  of  view  between 
the  rose  thickets  at  the  end  of  the  lawn.  Surely  he  could 
not  be  mistaken?  There  was  no  other  woman  in  the 
house  so  tall  as  Maisie  Archdale.  Mark  crossed  the 
turf  with  the  step  of  a  cat;  he  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
to  Miss  Archdale,  but  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  combine  business  with  pleasure.  Here  the  cluster 
roses  towered  high  against  the  morning  blue,  great  groves 
and  archways  of  gold  and  pink  and  orange  linked  by 
flaunting  horns  of  honeysuckle  or  by  the  mauve  and 
purple  butterflies  of  the  climbing  pea ;  and  here  he  came 
on  Maisie,  in  a  small  clearing  where  the  sunshine,  re- 
flected from  a  million  balmy  petals,  made  the  very  air 
burn.  She  was  in  a  white  embroidered  dress,  her  hair 
plaited  thick  and  close,  and  she  was  kneeling  on  the  stone 
verge  of  a  little  font,  whose  musical  babble,  as  it  spurted 
up  and  fell  back  into  its  own  clear  pool,  drowned  Mark's 
footfall.  Coming  up  behind  her,  he  passed  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  drew  her  to  her  feet,  and  took  a  lover's 
kiss.  Then  for  one  impenitent  moment  he  thought  she 
was  going  to  faint. 

"Oh!    Mr.  Sturt " 

"Mark." 

"Mark." 

How  exquisitely  she  pronounced  his  name!     Not  the 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  33 

least  of  her  graces,  to  Mark  Sturt's  taste,  was  her  beau- 
tiful speaking  voice;  she  dragged  a  little  on  her  words, 
now  and  then,  but  so  slightly  that  it  could  not  be  called 
a  drawl,  and  when  she  spoke  his  name  on  a  half-breath 
Mark  seized  her  in  his  arms.  She  threw  up  her  wrist 
to  defend  her  lips,  and  Mark  drew  it  down,  smiling. 
He  was  not  tender;  there  was  nothing  in  his  eyes  but 
passion,  the  passion  that  borders  on  cruelty.  "Let  me 
go,"  said  Maisie. 

"Rather  have  Forester,  what?"  Mark  murmured. 
"Don't  be  shy,  Maisie;  has  no  one  ever  kissed  you  be- 
fore?" 

"No  one.    Oh,  let  me  go,  Mark  1" 

"By  Jove,  I  believe  that's  true!  Virgin  soil,  eh?  I'll 
initiate  you.  .  .  .  What  a  shame,  isn't  it?  Forester 
wouldn't  treat  you  so."  She  stood  still  in  his  embrace, 
bending  down  her  head.  "Speak  to  me." 

"I  can't  .  .  ." 

"What  can't  you?" 

"Anything,  while  .  .  ." 

Mark's  arm  dropped.  He  drew  two  or  three  deep 
breaths  like  a  man  recovering  from  a  fainting  fit.  Then 
he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  and  Maisie  saw  that  he 
was  very  pale. 

"It's  I  who  ought  to  apologize,"  she  said,  smiling  as 
she  drew  herself  free  of  his  clasp. 

"Why?" 

"For  shirking.    I  didn't  really  mean  to  cry  off." 

"Do  you  mind  my  smoking?" 

"No,  I  like  it." 

Mark  filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it  before  he  spoke  again. 
He  tossed  the  match  down  and  watched  it  fall  and  burn 
itself  out  on  the  close  turf.  "You  mustn't  mind  me,"  he 
said.  "You  reminded  me  for  a  moment  of  a  young  girl 
I  used  to  know  when — when  I  was  a  young  man."  He 


34  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

stopped,  grinding  the  match  into  the  grass  with  his  heel  ; 
he  had  not  meant  to  speak  of  Renee,  he  had  never  in  his 
life  spoken  of  her  before,  but  the  words  were  dragged 
out  of  him  against  his  will,  though  under  his  impassive 
manner  they  cost  him  strange  birththroes.  "She  was 
rather  badly  hurt:  I  do  not  mean  by  me.  But  for  one 
moment  your  expression  reminded  me  of  her.  I'd  rather 
die  than  bring  that  look  into  any  woman's  face."  He 
waited  a  moment,  and  added  simply,  "I  suppose  you 
know  what  getting  married  means." 

"Did  she  die?"  said  Maisie. 

"She?    Who?    Oh— yes,  she  died." 

"Did  you  love  her  ?" 

"Yes,  I  loved  her." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  this  to  any  one  before,  Mark?" 

He  raised  his  head  with  a  jerk.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't 
answer  any  more  questions.  Suppose  you  answer  mine 
instead.  I  asked  whether  you  realize  what  marriage 
means.  If  you  were  not  happy  in  my  arms  just  now,  do 
you  think  you'll  be  any  happier  at  Ushant?" 

"Probably  not,"  said  Maisie.    "Do  I  care  ?" 

A  gust  of  south  wind,  sweet  with  honeysuckle,  went 
wandering  by,  ruffling  the  folds  of  her  white  skirt,  and 
scattering  the  slender  pipe  of  the  fountain  into  silver 
threads  which  wet  the  turf  with  spray.  She  turned  and 
began  to  pace  the  glade  beside  Mark.  "I'm  beginning 
to  understand  you,  Mark:  the  little  tale  you've  just  told 
me  throws  a  flood  of  light  on  your  feelings.  You  call 
yourself  a  business  man,  but  you're  as  romantic  as  you 
were  when  you  were  twenty,  and  as  sensitively  chival- 
rous— I've  suspected  you  of  it  before,  only  I  could  hardly 
believe  it  of  Lawrence  Sturt's  brother.  Now  I'm  not  ro- 
mantic. A  bargain's  a  bargain,  for  me.  I've  Yorkshire 
blood  in  me,  and  I  like  to  pay  my  debts  as  I  go  along. 
You  mustn't  be  chivalrous  with  me,  because  it  only  makes 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  35 

things  harder  for  me.  If  you  want  to  relieve  my  em- 
barrassment, dear  boy,  you  must  hold  yourself  free  to 
take  what  you  like,  when  you  like,  and  to  pursue  your 
own  satisfaction  irrespective  of  mine,  without  regard  to 
any  small  protests  I  may  be  weak  enough  to  make.  I'm 
not  like  your  little  girl  in  the  story — I  shan't  die  under 
it.  Is  that  clear?" 

"Perfectly,  thanks,"  said  Mark,  pulling  at  his  mus- 
tache. What  was  clear  to  him  was  that  Miss  Archdale, 
after  all  her  London  seasons,  did  not  know  what  she 
was  talking  about ;  clear  too  that  she  did  not  even  dimly 
see  what  sort  of  part  she  was  forcing  on  himself.  She 
was  very  beautiful ;  he  could  not  call  her  stupid ;  but  he 
did  not  know  which  he  disliked  more,  the  role  she  as- 
signed to  him  or  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke  of  Renee. 
He  was  not  accustomed  to  think  of  himself  as  a  fastid- 
ious man,  yet  at  that  moment  he  was  near  to  breaking 
his  word,  not  because  the  situation  was  both  difficult  and 
dangerous,  but  because  he  was  shocked  and  offended  by 
the  woman  at  his  side.  "Perfectly,"  said  Mark  Sturt; 
and  then  Maisie's  fingers  felt  for  his  hand  and  nestled 
into  it,  as  if  her  heart — the  inner  spirit  which  our  words 
often  coarsen  and  belie — were  pleading  for  leniency. 
Mark's  hand  clenched  itself  over  hers. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  question  you,  Maisie,  because  I 
feel  bound  in  honor  to  respect  your  small  secrets,  and  if 
you  refuse  to  answer  me  I  shall  not  make  any  attempt 
to  find  them  out,  though  I'm  certain  I  could  compel 
you  to  answer  me  if  I  liked.  I  won't  do  that.  But  you're 
young — twenty-three,  isn't  it?  I'm  ten  years  older,  and 
I'm  a  business  man.  I  don't  know  what  your  difficulties 
are,  but  it's  hard  for  me,  as  a  practical  man,  to  believe 
that  there's  no  simpler  way  out  of  them  than  this  fan- 
tastic marriage.  Difficulties  that  look  terrible  to  inex- 
perienced eyes  can  usually  be  settled  with  a  pinch  of 


36  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

common  sense  and  a  check.  If,  for  instance,  any  other 
man  is  bullying  you — I  speak  in  the  dark,  as  you  know 
— give  me  leave  to  tackle  him  for  you,  and  I'll  engage  to 
settle  his  hash  in  five  minutes,  not  with  my  fists,  dear, 
but  with  the  prosaic  aid  of  the  law.  I  should  be  glad 
to  put  my  judgment  and  experience  at  your  service. 
Will  you — for  God's  sake  do — tell  me  why  you  want  to 
marry  me?" 

"No." 

"I  beg  of  you  to  do  it    111  keep  your  confidence." 

"I  shall  not  do  it,  Mark.  But  I'll  give  you  back  your 
word,  if  you  like." 

"And  if  I  take  it  back,  what  will  you  do?" 

Maisie  did  not  immediately  answer.  She  stood  by  the 
brim  of  the  fountain,  dabbling  her  fingers  in  its  spray. 

"Speak  to  me,  Maisie." 

"I  shall  marry  Mr.  Forester." 

"Oh,  you  will,  will  you?"  said  Mark  under  his  breath. 
"No,  I'll  be  shot  if  any  other  man  shall  wear  you.  Have 
your  own  way,  then;  I'll  not  let  you  go  again." 

He  stopped  to  relight  his  pipe,  and  to  move  to  her 
other  side,  so  that  the  smoke  should  not  drift  across  her 
face.  "Regard  that  as  settled.  Right  or  wrong,  I'm  not 
going  to  give  you  up  to  young  Forester.  And  now  we'll 
get  to  business.  You  go  to  Ushant  on  Monday,  do  you 
say?  Straight  from  here?  And  what  then — do  I  travel 
down  with  you?" 

"No,  that  would  never  do.  You'll  have  to  find  your 
own  way  to  the  cottage ;  I  might  manage  to  pick  you  up 
at  the  station  and  drive  you  over  with  me  in  the  dogcart, 
but  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  you  walked.  It's  not 
above  four  miles."  Sturt,  who  was  as  indolent  in  travel 
as  he  was  energetic  in  sport,  looked  a  trifle  resigned.  "I 
know  you  won't  mind  that" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  37 

"Oh,  quite.  Is  it  your  idea  that  no  one  should  know 
you  have  a  man  in  the  house  with  you?" 

"No,  that  wouldn't  work;  some  stray  passer-by  would 
be  sure  to  see  us  together,  or  there  would  be  children 
hanging  round,  or  those  horrid  little  boy  scouts — they 
crop  up  in  the  most  unlikely  places.  No,  the  less  mys- 
tery the  better.  We'll  be  honeymooners,  you  and  I ;  legit- 
imate, don't  you  know,  but  very  daring  and  unconven- 
tional. I'll  wear  sandals,  and  you  shall  go  without  a 
collar,  which  will  create  a  devil-may-care  atmosphere  of 
Golder's  Green."  She  laughed,  and  Mark  had  again  the 
fleeting  vision  of  a  sweeter  Maisie,  neither  cold  nor  pas- 
sionate, but  natural  and  friendly  as  a  boy.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  knew  any  one  who  looked  less  like  Golder's 
Green  than  you  do.  You're  not  handsome,  Mr.  Sturt, 
but  I  like  the  look  of  you:  does  that  touch  your  vanity? 
All  men  are  vain,  and  most  Englishmen  are  shy.  Are 
you  shy,  Mark?" 

"Very,"  said  Mark. 

"I  believe  you  are,  though  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean 
me  to  believe  you."  She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  soft, 
brilliant  eyes,  derisive,  cajoling,  penetrating,  but  Mark 
had  not  lived  five  and  thirty  years  for  nothing,  and  he 
was  steady  under  fire.  "You  certainly  are  impassive. 
This  is  a  digression.  To  return  to  Ushant:  all  I  want 
is  to  break  the  thread  between  it  and  London.  In  a 
little  place  like  Ushant  there  won't  be  a  soul,  you  know, 
that  has  ever  heard  of  you  or  me  or  any  one  in  our  set. 
Well,  I  won't  say  that;  the  ricar  and  the  doqtor  may 
know  your  name  as  a  promising  M.P.,  and  their  wives 
may  hare  seen  my  photograph  in  the  Qveenf  but  that  sort 
of  knowledge  only  widens  the  gulf.  I  know:  I've  lived 
in  that  world  myself."  Mark  listened  attentively;  no 
mystery  hung  over  Miss  Archdale's  past,  yet  he  knew 


38  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

nothing  very  definite  about  it,  and  she  herself  never 
spoke  of  it.  But  she  did  not  break  her  rule,  though  for 
a  moment  he  had  fancied  she  was  going  to  do  so.  "There 
is  no  bridge,  believe  me,  between  our  small  set  where 
every  one  knows  every  one,  and  the  great  world  outside 
it  where  no  one  knows  any  one.  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of 
'flying  chats'  after  we  get  to  Ushant;  all  I  do  bar  is  leav- 
ing links  between  Ushant  and  London  which  some  kind 
London  friend  may  pick  up." 

"Quite;  we'll  be  very  precautious.  But  there  remains 
one  point  to  settle." 

"Which?" 

"Rather  an  important  one.  Getting  married.  Have 
you  thought  out  your  arrangements  for  that?" 

"No,  dear  boy,  I  haven't,"  Maisie  acknowledged  with 
an  irrepressible  faint  blush.  "I — I  left  that  to  you." 

"It  does  seem  to  fall  within  my  province.  Well,  I 
don't  want  to  impress  you  with  a  display  of  learning,  so 
I'll  confess  that  I  got  up  the  subject  this  morning  out  of 
a  directory.  The  first  point  to  settle  is  whether  you 
want  to  be  married  in  church  or  at  a  registry  office." 

"In  church." 

"Really?  I  didn't  know — forgive  me  if  I  am  indis- 
creet— that  you  indulged  in  anything  so  unfashionable  as 
a  dogmatic  religion."  Maisie  looked  as  if  she  hadn't 
known  it  either.  "Dear  me!  this  is  very  awkward.  It 
raises  unforeseen  difficulties.  I  say,  I'm  afraid  it's  all 
off!" 

"Because  I  want  to  be  married  in  church?  Good 
heavens,  why?  You're  not  a  militant  agnostic,  surely?" 

"No,    I'm   afraid   I'm   something   even   more   uncom- 
promising," said  Mark,  stopping  to  knock  the  ash  from 
his  pipe.     "Didn't  you  know  I'm  a  Catholic?" 
"Oh!  is  that  all?" 
"All!" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  39 

"My  dear  boy,  I'd  just  as  soon  be  married  in  a  Roman 
Catholic  church  as  a  Protestant  one!  I  couldn't  stand 
a  registry  office — I  really  am  not  a  heathen,  and  no 
amount  of  registrars  would  ever  succeed  in  making  me 
feel  married  at  all.  But  I'm  not  a  bit  dogmatic.  Very 
few  Protestants  are,  I  think.  Oh,  I  suppose  High  Church 
people  are,"  said  Miss  Archdale  hazily,  "and  they  won't 
eat  fish — no,  they  won't  eat  anything  but  fish — by  the  bye, 
I  don't  know  how  you'll  get  on  at  Ushant!  One  never 
can  get  anything  but  bloaters  in  a  sea-coast  village.  But 
perhaps  you  aren't  strict?  Anyhow  I'm  not.  I  never 
did  really  know  the  difference  between  the  two  churches, 
except  that  you  worship  the  Virgin  and  believe  in  the 
saints  and  we  don't,  and  one  or  two  things  like  that.  I'd 
quite  as  soon  be  married  by  a  Roman  Catholic  priest. 
Of  course  they're  not  like  our  clergy,  but  they're  just 
as  much  priests,  aren't  they  ?  Apostolical  succession  and 
all  that.  Dissenters  are  different." 

"Ha-ha-ha !" 

"Oh,  Mark,  don't  laugh  like  that!  They'll  hear  you 
from  the  house!"  Maisie  cried  out  indignantly.  But 
Mark  Sturt's  shout  of  laughter  was  not  to  be  subdued  in 
a  moment.  "Oh,  do  be  quiet!  what  is  there  to  laugh  at? 
I  dare  say  I  am  very  ignorant,  but  no  one  ever  taught 
me  anything,  and  how  am  I  to  know  ?" 

"Ha-ha!  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mark  said  re- 
morsefully. Then  he  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to 
laugh  again.  "Maisie,  you  are  impayable!  You  ought 
to  have  a  sash  and  a  bib.  Never  mind,  I  won't  laugh 
any  more."  He  struggled  back  to  gravity.  "All  right, 
as  you're  not  dogmatic  we  can  go  ahead  like  a  house  on 
fire.  Only  there's  one  other  point  which  I'm  obliged, 
with  apologies,  to  bring  forward.  I  pointed  out  to  you 
last  night  that  there  were  liabilities  to  be  considered.  In 
plain  English,  which  I  know  you  like,  I  am  bound  to  get 


40  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

your  promise  that  the  children  of  the  marriage,  if  there 
were  any,  should  be  educated  as  Catholics." 

"What,  all  of  them?  I  thought  the  boys  followed  the 
father's  faith  and  the  girls  the  mother's." 

"That  is  a  capital  arrangement  for  those  who  believe 
in  two  faiths,"  said  the  Catholic  dryly.  "We  don't.  Credo 
in  sanctam  ecclesiam  catholicam."  He  crossed  himself. 

"Mark,  I  didn't  know  you  felt  like  this  about  it." 

"No?" 

"You  frighten  me." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  be  frightened.  I'm  not  a  bit  a  good 
Catholic." 

"But  you  are  a  Catholic — a  believer,"  Maisie  mur- 
mured. "And  I'm  a  heretic.  Mark,  I  feel  as  if  you  had 
gone  miles  away."  Instead  of  replying,  Mark  turned 
again  to  knock  the  ash  from  his  pipe,  and  this  time 
Maisie  drew  her  own  conclusions,  though  for  once  in  a 
way  she  kept  them  to  herself.  She  had  seen  Forester 
take  equal  trouble  with  his  match  or  his  cigarette  when 
he  was  nervous,  but  she  had  never  expected  to  find  the 
same  trait  in  Mark  Sturt.  "I  do  bother  you,  don't  I  ?" 

"Not  a  bit ;  and  anyhow  you  can't  help  yourself.  These 
things  have  to  be  settled  before  one  can  get  married  in 
our  Church,  that's  all.  The  ceremony  once  over,  you 
can  safely  forget  that  I'm  a  Catholic  at  all,  ualess " 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless,  of  course,  a  child  were  born  to  us,"  Sturt 
answered  impatiently.  "Then  the  subject  would  come  up 
again.  Otherwise  I  promise  that  it  shan't  worry  you. 
Indeed,  it  makes  things  easier  to  arrange,  for  we  can 
get  married  in  my  own  parish  church  by  my  own  priest ; 
that  disposes  of  the  question  of  residence,  and  Catholic 
priests  don't  gossip." 

"Is  he  nice?" 

"Nice?    What  do  you  mean?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  41 

"Is  he — don't  be  cross,  Mark,  you  know  they  aren't 
all,  and  I  should  hate  to  be  married  by  a  man  who  dropped 
his  h's — is  he  a  gentleman?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  Mark  shortly.  "He  was  at 
school  with  me." 

"Oh!  That  sort?  I'm  glad."  Miss  Archdale's  brow 
cleared,  but  as  Mark's  remained  clouded  she  relapsed 
into  deprecation.  "Oh,  now  you  are  cross !  But  I  can't 
see  why  you  should  be." 

Mark  looked  at  her.  She  was  leaning  back  on  a  dense 
thornless  thicket  of  yellow  briar  against  which  the  gold 
of  her  hair  glittered  like  a  flame,  her  arms  folded,  her 
knees  crossed  under  her  loose-flowing  skirts;  and  her 
raised  eyes  were  as  blindly  clear  as  a  child's.  No,  she 
really  did  not  see.  "What  an  idiot  you  are,  Maisie!" 
said  Mark  very  unexpectedly.  He  was  more  taken  aback 
by  his  own  incivility  than  she  was. 

"Thank  you.  I  don't  know  why,  but  perhaps  I  shall 
grow  up  to  it  in  time." 

"Don't  you  mind  being  called  an  idiot?" 

"No,  I  love  it.  You  don't  know  how  jolly  and  familiar 
it  sounds.  Besides,  you  can't  go  on  being  cross  after 
that." 

"Oh!  well,  if  you  like  it,  I  shan't  beg  your  pardon," 
said  Mark,  struggling  with  an  impulse  to  take  her  in 
his  arms  again.  But  he  did  better  than  apologize.  "The 
fact  is,  I'm  very  fond  of  Father  de  Trafford.  He  is  a 
saint,  Miss  Maisie,  one  of  the  saints  you  don't  believe 
in :  much  better  than  you  or  me.  Never  mind,  I  for- 
give you.  There  only  remains  to  settle  the  day:  will 
Monday  do  ?  I  can  get  things  in  train  by  then,  I  believe, 
though  I  shall  have  my  hands  full :  I  must — but  I  needn't 
bother  you  about  that."  He  had  been  about  to  speak  of 
the  necessity  of  getting  a  dispensation. 

"Monday  would  suit  me  perfectly,"  said  Maisie  with 


42  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

a  smile  like  sunshine.  "I  could  go  up  by  an  early  train, 
drop  my  big  box  at  my  own  house,  and  go  on  by  taxi  to 
the  church,  either  before  or  after  lunch,  whichever  is 
more  convenient.  And  I  could  take  your  luggage  down 
with  mine  if  you  put  it  in  the  Waterloo  cloakroom  be- 
fore I  get  there ;  it  would  have  your  initials  on  it,  I  sup- 
pose. Then  you  would  have  no  bother  at  Ushant.  We 
had  better  not  lunch  together  or  go  anywhere  together 
till  we  meet  at  the  cottage.  You  must  let  me  know  the 
time,  and  of  course  you  must  tell  me  where  Father  de 
Trafford's  church  is — would  it  be  near  your  rooms?" 

"Lane  Street — down  at  the  back  of  Westminster,  in 
the  thick  of  the  slums." 

"I'll  remember.     And  when  shall  you  leave  Shotton  ?" 

"This  afternoon.  I  shall  have  fifty  things  to  see  to 
'between  this  and  Monday." 

"So  soon?  After  all  I  can  write  to  you  if  anything 
occurs  to  me.  Shall  I  address  you  at  your  own  chambers 
or  at  the  club?" 

"My  own  flat;  but  I  wouldn't  put  down  anything  in- 
criminating in  black  and  white,  if  I  were  you.  It  never 
pays  to  trust  servants.  You,  I  suppose,  will  stay  on 
here  till  Monday.  But  you  might  give  me  your  town 
address  and  the  telephone  number,  in  case  of  accidents." 

"Hadn't  we  better  exchange  cards?  I  don't  know 
yours,  either." 

"Happy  thought!"  said  Mark  with  levity.  "Here's 
mine."  He  gravely  gave  her  one,  and  she  tucked  it  into 
her  dress.  Strange  how  suddenly  they  seemed  to  have 
slipped  into  an  easier  relation,  how  much  more  naturally 
they  talked  to  each  other  since  Mark's  small  storm  had 
cleared  the  air!  "I'll  give  you  mine  when  we  go  in- 
doors," said  Maisie.  "Oh,  and,  Mark " 

"Yes,  dear?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  43 

"Is  there  any  one  you  would  like  to  ask  to  the  cere- 
mony?" 

"Any  one  I  would  like — !  I  don't  follow.  Isn't  it 
to  be  a  secret  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  laugh  and  a  fleeting  color 
and  a  twist  of  her  level  brows.  "A  dead  secret.  Still, 
after  all,  Lawrence  is  your  brother." 

"Bless  me !"  Mark  exclaimed,  "do  you  mean,  should 
I  like  to  tell  Lawrence?" 

"I  thought  it  possible." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  dear.  Such  an  idea  would 
never  enter  my  mind." 

"Then  that  settles  that,"  said  Miss  Archdale,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  brings  a  laborious  negotiation  to  a  satis- 
factory close.  "Oh,  Mark,  I'm  so  hungry !  I  didn't  have 
any  supper  last  night  except  some  biscuits  that  Nelly 
sneaked  up  to  my  room.  Do  let's  go  and  have  our  break- 
fast before  all  the  other  people  come  down !" 


CHAPTER  III 

"O  Salutaris  Hostia 

Qui  coeli  pandis  ostium, 
Bella  premunt  hostilia, 

Da  robur,  fer  auxilium." 

THE  nave  of  St.  Casimir's  church  was  dark,  for  it 
was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  only  half  a  dozen  lamps 
had  been  lit  in  the  aisles  for  the  Friday-night  service. 
But  at  the  altar  the  Benediction  candles  shone  like  a 
golden  galaxy,  star  above  star,  honoring  with  their  bright 
rays  the  mystery  of  the  Host;  and  before  the  throne 
Father  de  Trafford  knelt  with  white  illuminated  face,  of- 
fering the  adoration  of  incense,  which  is  the  prayer  of 
the  Church,  while  the  low  chant  went  up  from  kneeling 
choir  and  congregation.  Among  the  latter  Mark  Sturt 
knelt  with  bent  head,  murmuring  the  same  hymn  that 
men  of  his  faith  had  sung  six  hundred  years  ago : 

"Uni  trinoque  Domino 

Sit  sempiterna  gloria, 
Qui  vitam  sine  termino 

Nobis  donet  in  patria." 

Mark  had  told  Maisie  that  he  was  not  a  good  Catholic, 
and  in  fact,  as  practicing  Catholics  go,  he  lived  care- 
lessly, for  the  pressure  of  work,  while  it  staved  off  pas- 
sionate adventures,  tended  also  to  narrow  the  scope  of 
prayer  and  meditation  in  his  spiritual  life.  But  he  had 
always  fulfilled  the  obligatory  observances,  and  when 
he  worshiped  he  was  often  painfully  conscious  of  his 

44 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  45 

own  deficiencies.  To-night,  when  the  bell  rang  and  the 
priest  raised  in  his  veiled  hands  the  sacred  mysteries  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  his  people,  Mark's  head 
sank  lower  and  lower. 

"Adoremus   in   aeternum   sanctissimum   sacramentum." 

It  was  the  world-old  challenge  of  the  spirit  to  the 
flesh,  of  the  unseen  and  eternal  to  the  things  seen,  which 
are  temporal;  and  it  pierced  Mark  Sturt  to  the  heart 
because,  though  he  did  not  know  it  himself,  there  was  in 
him  a  strain  of  the  visionary  and  the  ascetic,  which  might 
have  ignored  any  lesser  claim,  but  could  deny  nothing 
to  what  claimed  all.  In  place  of  lofty  nave  and  lighted 
choir  Mark  saw  the  solitude  of  Calvary  and  the  Son  of 
God  nailed  to  the  cross ;  and  as,  with  the  full  keenness  of 
his  intellect  and  the  full  strength  of  his  will,  he  bowed 
himself  in  adoration  of  that  glorified  body  which  the 
priest  carried  in  his  hands  under  the  form  of  the  Host, 
there  came  upon  him  once  again  that  hunger  and  thirst 
after  God  in  which  all  mortal  passions  are  lost  as  the 
river  is  lost  in  the  sea.  And  he  prayed  for  purity  of  life 
and  thought.  He  forgot  Gatton,  forgot  Westminster, 
forgot  the  gold  hair  of  Maisie  Archdale:  forgot  indeed 
where  he  was,  till  his  neighbor,  a  young  Irish  private  of 
the  Leinsters,  touched  his  arm  apologetically  because  the 
service  was  over  and  the  way  out  was  barred  by  Mark's 
half  prostrate  attitude.  Purity  of  life  and  thought  for 
a  soldier,  a  politician,  a  man  of  business  with  a  big  manu- 
facturing constituency  at  his  back?  Strange  paradox! 
Mark  Sturt  submitted  to  it.  For  him  no  facile  creed : 
but  to  this  hard  and  heavy  bondage,  this  unremitting 
tax  on  will  and  pride  and  strength,  he  could  yield  with- 
out reserve.  But  he  got  to  his  feet  rather  hurriedly 
when  the  Leinsterman  touched  his  arm. 

Father  de  Trafford,  coming  out  as  usual  by  the  little 


46  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

door  of  the  Lady  Chapel  ten  minutes  later,  was  not  slow 
to  recognize  the  tall  figure  awaiting  him,  for  Mark  stood 
bareheaded  in  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  hat  in  hand. 
"Is  it  you,  Mark?"  the  priest  exclaimed.  "My  dear  fel- 
low, I  haven't  seen  you  for  years!  How  are  you,  and 
what  have  you  been  doing?  Killing  yourself  in  the 
Andes,  I  hear." 

"While  you  have  been  killing  yourself  in  Lane  Street. 
You  look  tired,  Father ;  you  ought  to  get  away.  London 
in  July  is  too  much  for  you." 

"I'm  not  tired — only  worried.  You're  coming  home 
with  me?  That's  delightful.  You  have  dined,  I  hope? 
for  I  couldn't  give  you  much  on  a  Friday  night,  but  I 
have  some  good  cigars  that  you  shall  try,  and  we'll  talk 
about  everything  in  heaven  and  earth.  Now  here  is  a 
reward  for  a  poor  sinner!  I  was  in  a  fit  of  the  blues  an 
hour  ago."  He  slipped  his  hand  through  Mark's  arm. 
"First  I  want  to  hear  all  your  own  news.  Where  are 
you  stopping — at  the  flat?"  Mark  assented.  "And  how's 
Gatton?" 

"Gatton's  very  well,  I  believe.  I  haven't  been  there 
lately,  so  Jack  Bennet  is  in  command.  I'm  booked  for 
the  opening  of  the  new  town  hall  in  January,  which  will 
be  a  nuisance.  Bennet  is  angling  for  the  Lord  Lieutenant, 
but  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  make  a  speech.  Will  you 
come  and  back  me  up?  I  can't  bear  facing  that  sort  of 
function  singlehanded,  but  I  can't  get  Lawrence  to  go 
near  it." 

"I  never  knew  any  man  that  had  a  nicer  sense  of  the 
duties  of  his  position  than  Lawrence,"  Father  de  Traf- 
ford  observed,  "or  a  happier  knack  of  getting  out  of 
them.  If  one  wanted  to  know  what  not  to  do  in  any 
given  emergency,  Lawrence  would  be  a  better  guide  than 
the  Holy  Father.  Still  Gatton  is  your  own  affair  after 
all,  and  I  can't  imagine  why  you  should  want  any  one 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  47 

to  back  you  up.  After  four  or  five  years  in  the  House 
you  ought  to  be  used  to  getting  on  your  legs — aren't 
you?" 

"Constitutional  shyness,  I  suppose.  I  am  shy,  you 
know;  I  hate  the  footlights." 

"Oh,  rubbish !  Where  is  Lawrence,  by  the  bye  ?  Is  he 
as  meteoric  as  ever?" 

"Quite,"  said  Mark,  smiling.  "He's  staying  in  Hamp- 
shire with  the  Ferriers.  I've  been  there  with  him  this 
fortnight.  I  only  left  to-day." 

"Pleasant  party?"  Father  de  Trafford  asked,  leading 
the  way  into  the  presbytery.  He  was  a  thin  worn-look- 
ing man  with  the  gay  blue  eyes  of  a  boy,  and  he  had  a 
soft  gay  manner  without  a  trace  of  clericalism,  so  that 
in  the  dark  one  would  not  have  known  him  for  a  priest; 
in  the  light,  on  the  other  hand,  one  could  hardly  have 
mistaken  him  for  anything  but  what  he  was1,  for  the 
stamp  of  spiritual  authority  marked  his  features,  and  the 
limpid  glance,  with  all  its  sweetness,  was  remarkably 
piercing  and  shrewd.  "But  I  know  the  Ferriers  always 
get  together  pleasant  people.  Now  let  us  make  ourselves 
comfortable.  See  my  little  smiling  angle  of  the  country 
through  this  window !  Ille  mihi  prater  omnes — that's  not 
Church  Latin."  The  presbytery  was  within  a  bowshot  of 
the  church,  and  between  the  two  lay  one  of  those  tiny 
and  sequestered  nooks  of  garden  which  survive  in  the 
older  quarters  of  London :  a  crooked  patch  of  turf  en- 
closed between  high  walls,  a  couple  of  shady  plane  trees, 
a  border  dense  with  flowers  now  paling  in  the  nightfall, 
and  a  wooden  bench  and  table  roughly  knocked  together 
by  Father  fie  Trafford 's  own  carpentry. 

"We  might  sit  out  there,  shall  we?"  said  the  priest, 
taking  Mark's  arm  again  and  propelling  him  gently  to- 
wards the  open  window.  Mark  smiled,  he  knew  the  tiny 
garden  well ;  through  the  dust  and  smoke  of  London 


48  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

there  penetrated  to  his  nostrils  the  sweet  night  scent  of 
stocks  and  tobacco-flowers.  "I  wish  it  were  daylight, 
then  you  should  see  my  robin ;  he  always  comes  and  con- 
verses with  me  when  I'm  writing  my  sermons.  Don't 
laugh,  plutocrat !  do  I  own  Gatton,  or  can  I  go  and  climb 
Popo-what's-its-name  ?  Very  well  then,  I  won't  be  put 
out  of  conceit  with  this  pocket-handkerchief  of  a  garden 
of  mine.  Philosophy  lies  in  liking  what  you  have,  and 
success  lies  in  wanting  what  you  haven't;  there  is  life 
for  you  in  two  nutshells,  take  your  own  and  leave  me 
mine.  Try  these  cigars :  a  duke  gave  them  to  me,  so  they 
ought  to  be  good,  but  as  you  know  I  am  no  judge.  Oh, 
my  dear  Mark,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again !  Were 
you  in  church  to-night?" 

"Yes." 

"I  did  not  see  you." 

"Your  Reverence  never  sees  any  one,"  Mark  answered, 
the  kindly  fun  in  his  voice  a  thin  veil  over  its  deep  affec- 
tion. "I  sat  near  the  pulpit  in  the  hope  of  catching  your 
eye,  but  in  vain.  I  love  your  little  Friday  night  talks, 
they  sound  as  if  you  were  thinking  aloud;  and  I  was 
deeply  interested  in  what  you  were  saying  to-night." 

"About  the  sanctity  of  marriage?  I  shouldn't  have 
expected  you  to  find  that  topic  keenly  interesting,  unless 
it  were  from  a  Parliamentary  point  of  view." 

"Oh,  it's  a  wide  problem,"  said  Mark.  Father  de 
Trafford's  head  went  slightly  to  one  side;  his  vocation 
had  not  come  on  him  till  he  was  five  and  twenty,  and 
his  boyhood  in  a  hunting  family  supplied  him  with  an 
illustration  of  Mark's  attitude  in  the  swerve  of  a  horse 
before  a  stiff  fence.  It  had  not  taken  him  long  to  see 
that  Mark  was  facing  a  fence  of  some  sort.  "How 
does  the  work  go  on,"  Mark  continued,  "and  what  can  I 
do  to  help,  and  why  are  you  worried?" 

"Because  I  have  no   faith,"  said  the  priest  with  an 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  49 

immense  sigh.  "Oh,  if  people  only  realized  what  sort  of 
work  it  is  we  churchmen  are  doing!  But  few  under- 
stand; and  many  don't  care,  though  I  know  that  is  not 
the  case  with  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  more  my  case  than  it  ought  to  be. 
Tell  me  some  more  about  it;  is  there  any  fresh  trouble? 
The  church  was  pretty  full,  I  thought." 

"Yes,  one  ought  to  be  grateful  for  that,  but  it's  very 
difficult  not  to  think  more  of  the  streets  which  are  so 
much  fuller.  The  parable  of  the  pieces  of  silver  was 
written  for  us  priests,  I  fancy,  but  unluckily  it  is  the 
ninety  and  nine  that  are  lost,  and  with  all  our  sweeping 
we  can  pick  up  only  two  or  three.  I  was  talking  last 
night  to  the  parson  of  St.  Sepulchre's,  a  very  nice  fellow, 
and  we  agreed  that  all  other  problems  wrhich  vex  the  soul 
of  man  put  together  are  not  so  harassing  as  this  of  life's 
moral  handicaps.  Pain  and  death,  what  are  they?  You, 
Mark,  you  have  been  as  near  death  as  any  man,  and  I 
know  that  your  experience  has  left  you  with  more  of 
contempt  than  of  fear  in  your  heart;  and  yet  it  came  to 
you  in  a  terrible  form.  The  war  taught  us  that  lesson 
if  it  taught  us  nothing  else.  But  the  more  one  sees  of 
evil  the  more  one  shrinks  from  it.  What  is  it  H.  G. 
Ward  says?  'The  world  seems  on  the  surface  to  be  a 
place  not  of  equitable  probation  but  of  favoritism.'  There 
are  hundreds  of  Catholics  in  my  own  parish  who  have, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  no  chance  of  leading  Catholic  lives ; 
and  as  for  the  folk  across  the  river — it  makes  me  sick 
to  think  of  them.  The  men  are  bad  enough,  but  it's  the 
women  that  make  one's  heart  ache.  They  drift  into  vice 
as  the  leaf  drifts  with  the  current.  They  seem  born  to 
no  other  end." 

"But  they  aren't  in  your  parish,  are  they?" 

"They  are  in  God's  parish,  aren't  they  ?"  retorted  Father 
de  Trafford.  "Now  forgive  me,  I  know  you  didn't  de- 


50  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

serve  that.  But  there's  where  it  is,  you  see,  they  are 
on  debatable  ground ;  and  I  can  do  so  little.  I  have  my 
hands  full  at  St.  Casimir's.  I  am  trying  to  scrape  up 
money  enough  to  start  a  mission.  Will  you  give  me  a 
check?  Now  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  You  shall  not 
put  your  hand  in  your  pocket  while  you  are  my  guest." 

"I  can  afford  it " 

"Don't  throw  your  money  in  my  face,"  said  the  priest 
severely.  "It's  very  ill-bred  of  you.  No:  keep  your 
hands  out  of  your  pockets.  I've  bled  you  enough  for 
this  year.  If  all  my  children  were  as  generous  as  you 
are,  I  should  never  be  reduced  to  mendicancy.  There 
is  Lawrence  now,  why  shouldn't  he  fork  out?  I'll  ask 
him." 

"Do,"  said  Mark  half -absently,  "but  I  say,  Guy,  old 

chap " 

He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  flush.  The  tired  and 
preoccupied  mind  had  gone  back  twenty  years  to  the 
days  when  his  spiritual  director  was  merely  a  little  fair- 
haired  imp  of  devilry  in  the  Lower  Line  at  Stonyhurst. 
De  Trafford  pressed  his  arm;  to  him  the  old  name  rang 
sweetly  with  its  boyish  associations  and  memories,  some 
pleasant,  some  painful,  but  all  mellowed  by  the  after- 
light down  the  vista  of  years.  "Oh,  do  go  on !"  he  said. 
"How  that  brings  back  old  days !  No  one  calls  me  Guy 
now  except  you,  Mark.  I  have  so  few  people  of  my 
own,  there  is  hardly  any  one  left  who  knew  me  when 
I  was  a  boy.  I  wish  you  did  it  oftener." 

"Couldn't :  I'm  far  too  much  in  awe  of  you." 
"Oh,  I  dare  say !"  de  Trafford  jeered  at  him.  Shrewd 
as  he  was,  the  priest  was  too  modest  to  realize  that  Mark 
had  spoken  the  bare  truth.  "In  awe  of  the  kid  whose 
head  you  used  to  punch.  Not  that  you  ever  did  punch 
it  as  a  matter  of  fact;  your  line  was  all  the  other  way. 
You  shielded  me  from  a  lot,  Mark.  I  don't  know  how  I 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  51 

should  ever  have  got  through  the  rough  and  tumble  of 
a  public  school  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  One  realizes 
these  things,  looking  back.  I  often  wonder  if  you  ever 
understood  the  driving  force  you  had  among  fellows  of 
your  own  standing,  or  the  responsibilities  which  were 
thrown  on  you.  Never  mind,  you  shouldered  them  as 
you  shouldered  Gatton.  True  Englishman!  you  never 
talk,  rarely  think,  and  often  act." 

It  was  his  habit,  half  artless  and  half  artful,  to  evoke 
confidences  by  pretending  to  be  quite  unaware  of  their 
coming  and  indifferent  whether  they  came  or  not.  Mark 
knew  the  trick,  and  smiled ;  but  however  well  he  knew 
it,  he  generally  fell  a  victim  to  it.  In  the  present  instance, 
however,  he  had  come  on  purpose  to  confess  himself,  and 
the  self -betrayal  was  deliberate. 

"Guy,  then — Topsy,  if  you  like,"  he  said,  smiling :  "old 
fellow,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  service.  Will  you  manage 
it?  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

"What,  what — marry  you?  My  dear  Mark,  are  you 
going  to  get  married  ?" 

"Yes.  Wait:  don't  congratulate  me.  It  isn't  alto- 
gether a  case  for  congratulation."  The  inner  pain  was 
distinctly  audible  in  his  voice  as  he  went  on.  "I  think 
you  must  have  met  her,  or  if  not  you'll  have  heard  of  her. 
Miss  Archdale." 

"The  beauty? — Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  even  I 
can't  help  hearing  as  much  as  that !  I've  seen  her  once 
or  twice,  and  she  is  very  lovely.  But  1  didn't  know  she 
was  a  Catholic." 

"She  isn't."  De  Trafford  did  not  speak.  "No,  you 
are  not  going  to  like  it,  Father :  it  is  not  only  a  mixed 
marriage,  but  it  is  to  be,  so  far  as  we  can  manage  it,  a 
private  and  a  very  hurried  marriage.  There  I  want  your 
help.  Will  you  tell  me  how  to  get  a  license,  and  will  you 
put  the  dispensation  in  train  for  me?  I  never  was  mar- 


52  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

ried  before,  and  I  don't  a  bit  know  how  you  set  about  it, 
except  that  there  are  certain  necessary  stipulations  to 
which  of  course  both  she  and  I  are  ready  to  agree.  I 
want  you  to  put  me  up  to  the  rules  of  the  game." 

"Is  this  all  you're  going  to  tell  me?" 

"Very  nearly  all.  No,  not  all.  I  shall  come  to  you 
to-morrow  night,  you  know."  Father  de  Trafford 
nodded,  but  without  enthusiasm ;  he  was  sure  that  Mark 
would  not  marry  without  confession,  but  he  knew  also 
that  the  penitent  can,  if  he  likes,  rule  a  line  between  con- 
fession and  confidence.  "No,  I  can't  explain,"  Mark 
said  wearily.  "Except  to  say  that  I  really  am  not  ask- 
ing you  to  abet  a  clandestine  match ;  I'm  my  own  master, 
and  Miss  Archdale  is  her  own  mistress,  for  she  has 
neither  father  nor  mother  nor  guardian,  so  there  is  no 
one  whom  we're  under  any  obligation  to  consult." 

"Does  Lawrence  know?" 

"No." 

"Pity,  isn't  it?" 

"Why?    We  never  were  on  those  terms,  Topsy." 

"Suppose  the  marriage  became  known,  as  no  one  can 
guarantee  that  it  won't,  I  think  you  would  find  that  Law- 
rence would  be  hurt."  Mark  did  not  answer,  but  his 
expression  was  both  skeptical  and  stubborn.  "Don't 
you  want  me  to  say  any  more?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  want  you  to  say  anything  you  care 
to  say,  though  I  can't  pretend  that  it  will  have  much  in- 
fluence. The  marriage  will  go  forward.  I  won't  dis- 
guise from  you  that  I'm  anxious  and  unhappy  about  it." 

"You  care  for  her,  Mark?" 

"Question  barred,  Father." 

"You  fill  me  with  anxiety,"  said  the  priest  very  gravely. 
"What  can  I  say  when  you  leave  me  in  the  dark?  How 
can  I  even  take  the  necessary  steps  to  get  your  dispensa- 
tion?" He  raised  his  head,  and  the  shrewd  blue  eyes 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  S3 

flashed  into  Mark  Sturt's  as  if  they  would  read  his  very 
soul,  till  the  blood  rose  under  the  tanned  skin.     "Open 
your  heart  to  me  now,  if  there's  anything  in  it  you're 
ashamed  to  let  me  see." 
"I'm  always  ashamed  .  .  ." 

"Ah!"  De  Trafford  drew  a  long  breath.  For  the 
analyst  of  souls  there  was  no  misreading  that  wide  candid 
outlook,  or  the  touch  of  bewilderment  in  Mark's  tone. 
"I  am  a  fool,  and  I  see  too  much  of  the  seamy  side  of 
human  nature.  Keep  your  secret,  and  I'll  get  your  dis- 
pensation. I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  force  your  confi- 
dence in  a  sphere  outside  my  own." 

"No,  you  only  want  to  worm  it  out  of  me!"  Sturt 
turned  suddenly  and  dropped  his  hand  on  his  friend's 
knee.  "I  swear,  if  I  could,  I'd  tell  you  everything.  I 
should — I  should  be  glad  to  have  advice — your  advice, 
anyhow."  The  distress  in  his  face  was  so  very  evident 
that  the  priest's  momentary  feeling  of  estrangement  was 
quite  broken  down.  De  Trafford  touched  with  his  deli- 
cate fingers  the  strong  hand  that  would  have  been  will- 
ing to  be  led  by  his  guidance.  "Why  are  you  troubled," 
he  said  gently,  "or  is  that  question  barred  too?" 

"It's  the  answer  that  I  have  to  bar,  not  the  question. 
I  can't  tell  you  what  isn't  my  secret.  I  am  up  against  a 
woman's  caprice — yes,  caprice,"  Mark  repeated,  as  the 
memory  of  the  night  by  the  lake  rose  before  him.  "But 
it's  my  own  fault.  I've  made  an  unutterable  fool  of 
myself,  which  is  what  you  would  expect  of  a  middle-aged 
business  man  who  doesn't  stick  to  his  office."  Father  de 
Trafford,  who  loved  Mark  because  he  was  a  romantic 
and  a  visionary,  had  to  repress  a  little  laugh.  "I  plunged 
heavily,  shutting  my  eyes  to  consequences,  and  I've  been 
waking  up  to  them  by  inches  ever  since.  I  can't  think 
how  I  ever  came  to  do  it,  but  it's  done  now  and  I  can't 
go  back :  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  I've  let  Miss  Arch- 


54  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

dale  in  as  well,  a  girl  of  three-and-twenty,  all  the  more 
at  my  mercy  because  she  labors  under  the  delusion  that 
she's  a  finished  woman  of  the  world  and — that  I'm  at 
hers.  ...  I  know  I'm  not  intelligible.  But  I'm  in  the 
dark  myself,  and  ...  let  it  go  at  that.  I  can't  explain." 

"Are  you  troubled  because  of  her  heresy?" 

Mark  smiled  involuntarily.  "No :  not  much,  I'm  afraid. 
She  isn't  good  enough  to  be  called  a  heretic.  She's  quite 
willing  to  be  married  in  a  Roman  Catholic  church,  and 
to  have  the  children  brought  up  as  Roman  Catholics. 
She  thinks  the  Roman  Catholics  are  quite  as  respectable 
as  the  Anglicans,  and  much  better  than  the  Wesleyans  or 
the  Salvation  Army." 

"Oh,  dear  me !  That's  not  very  hopeful.  But  perhaps 
you'll  be  able—?" 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  shan't,"  he  said  flatly. 
"I'm  willing  to  promise  to  try,  but  I  know  I  can't  do  it. 
You  can  come  and  stay  with  us,  if  the  marriage  is  ever 
acknowledged,  and  have  a  shot  at  her  yourself,  but  I'm 
afraid  you'll  agree  with  me  that  her  ignorance  is  most 
invincible.  Bless  the  dear  girl!  I'm  very  fond  of  her, 
you  know."  Father  de  TrafTord,  more  mystified  than 
ever,  murmured  pettishly  that  he  didn't  know  anything 
about  it.  "Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  the  fact  is  I'm  fretted  to 
death.  I've  been  interviewing  my  lawyers  this  after- 
noon; they  think  I'm  mad,  which  irks  me,  because  I've 
always  had  a  virgin  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  the  law. 
I  could  see  by  Riccardo's  expression  that  he  was  saying 
to  himself,  'Now  if  it  were  Lawrence  Sturt  who  talked 
this  rubbish  it  would  create  no  surprise,  but  I  did  think 
this  fellow  had  more  sense !'  It  is  disgusting  to  be  made 
to  look  ridiculous ;  for  heaven's  sake  don't  you  laugh  at 
me!" 

"I  don't  feel  much  like  laughing.    Tell  me,  Mark " 

"If  I  can!" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  55 

The  moon  had  gone  behind  a  cloud,  and  in  the  shadow 
of  the  plane  tree  it  was  so  dark  that  the  men  were  no 
longer  visible  to  each  other.  All  that  could  be  seen  of 
Mark  was  the  vague  outline  of  his  shoulders  and  the  red 
spark  of  his  cigar.  Father  de  Trafford  waited  a  moment, 
collecting  his  thoughts,  and  in  the  stillness  the  clock  of 
St.  Casimir's  began  to  strike  ten.  Then  other  spires  took 
up  the  tale  in  many  whispering  chimes.  When  the  last 
stroke  from  the  Westminster  Tower  had  died  away  into 
infinity  like  a  symbol  of  the  night  prayer  of  London,  the 
priest  began  again.  "All  this  tirade  about  your  law- 
yers," the  low  delicate  voice  passed  deftly  behind  Mark's 
guard,  "is  meant  only  to  throw  me  off  the  scent,  isn't  it? 
"I've  never  known  the  day  when  Mark  Sturt,  tackling  a 
difficulty  in  earnest,  could  be  moved  by  ridicule.  Your 
trouble  goes  deeper?" 

"Yes." 

De  Trafford  heard  rather  than  saw  the  jerk  of  Mark's 
arm  as  he  flung  away  his  cigar.  Then  he  leaned  his 
elbow  on  the  table  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mark !" 

"Yes  .  .  .  It's  difficult  to  express,  even  if  I  could 
tell  you  all  the  circumstances,  which  I  can't.  Guy  .  .  . 
you  say  I  shielded  you  at  Stonyhurst.  You  never  needed 
it.  You  .  .  .  did  more  for  me  than  I  could  ever  have 
done  for  you.  You've  always  stood  to  me  for  something 
higher  than  myself.  You  know  I've  lived  the  life  of 
other  men  of  my  class ;  if  I've  kept  fairly  straight  it  was 
because  I  hadn't  time  for  things  that  sap  one's  energy. 
But  I  always  meant,  some  day,  to  change.  ...  I  ... 
never  ceased  to  be  ashamed.  Now  and  again  I've  had 
the  .  .  .  vision.  To-night,  when  you  were  kneeling  be- 
fore the  altar,  I  saw  the  mysteries  ...  in  Whose  pres- 
ence you  live.  No,  let  me  go  on.  I  don't  pretend  that 
feelings  which  come  and  go,  and  have  no  appreciable  in- 


56  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

fluence  on  conduct,  are  of  much  value,  unless  it  were 
that,  having  them,  I  was  more  deeply  bound  to  do  bet- 
ter than  I  have  done.  You  know  that  the  work  at 
Gatton  has  always  been  to  me  as  much  of  a  religious 
as  of  a  commercial  problem,  but,  Gatton  apart,  I've  done 
nothing.  Not  a  record  to  be  proud  of.  Yet  I  did  mean 
to  do  better  some  day.  And  now  this  marriage.  .  .  ." 

"You're  afraid  of  yourself,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Needlessly,  I  think.  You  haven't  lived  the  spiritual 
life — I  grant  you  ought  to  have  done  better ;  but  you  have 
lived  temperately.  Action  is  governed  more  by  habit 
than  by  passion,  and  you  have  formed  the  habits  of  so- 
briety and  self-control." 

Mark  threw  out  his  hand  with  a  sound  of  distress. 
"Don't  mock  me.  I  don't  feel  like  it." 

"What  if  you  were  to  break  off  the  marriage?" 

"I  can't.    What's  more,  I  won't.    But  anyhow  I  can't." 

"Your  word  is  given?" 

"Yes.  More  than  that.  As  you  doubtless  see,  I  don't 
want  to  break  it  off;  but  I  couldn't  if  I  did." 

"Is  it  in  any  sense  a  question  of  duty  for  it  to  go  on, 
Mark?" 

"Not  what  one  would  call  duty  in  the  religious  sense. 

But — in  honor " 

•  "You're  engaged?" 

"Pretty  deeply." 

"Then  you  need  not  be  afraid.  Your  honor,  so  long 
as  I  have  known  you,  has  always  coincided  with  your 
religious  duty ;  it  has  never  been  a  mere  observance  of  a 
social  code.  The  two  standards  are  not  nearly  so  differ- 
ent as  they  are  sometimes  said  to  be.  Follow  your  rule 
of  honor;  you  won't  lose  the  vision  of  God  by  doing 
that." 

"Thank  you,  Father,"  said  Mark  after  a  long  silence. 


CHAPTER   IV 

MONDAY,  the  sixteenth  of  July,  came  drenched  in 
fog  like  a  November  morning.  There  were 
patches  of  sun  on  the  uplands  behind  Shotton,  but  all 
over  the  low-lying  flats  a  thick  steam  went  up,  drawn 
over  wall  and  window  like  a  white  blind.  Here  and 
there  in  a  breathing  space  the  shapes  of  trees  showed 
faintly  dark,  and  far  up  and  far  off  a  tiny  sun  hung  half 
dissolved  in  vapor,  which  drifted  and  deadened  over  it 
like  silver  bonfire  smoke.  The  daisy  buds  on  the  lawn 
were  smothered  in  dew,  their  heads  all  brushed  down  as 
if  a  roller  had  gone  over  them,  and  minute  drops  of  dew 
splashed  like  rain  from  gutter  and  leaf. 

"Maisie,  can  I  come  in?" 

"By  all  means." 

Dodo  Ferrier  entered,  but  halted  on  the  threshold.  It 
was  nine  o'clock,  and  she  was  on  her  way  down  to  break- 
fast, but  Maisie  was  still  in  bed,  her  hair  scattered  on 
the  pillow,  her  eyes  blinking  and  filmy  as  if  she  had  only 
just  woke  up.  Her  room,  which  looked  east  over  the 
uplands,  was  full  of  mist  and  of  the  pearly  morning  light, 
and  a  haze  of  light  was  in  her  eyes  too,  as  she  smiled  at 
Dodo's  hasty  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !" 

"Not  at  all.  I  know  I'm  awfully  late,"  said  Maisie. 
"I  lay  awake  all  night.  Then  I  fell  asleep  after  Ellen 
brought  my  tea." 

"Mercy!  why  did  you  lie  awake  all  night?" 

"Thinking,  just  thinking.  Do  you  often  think?  I 
hardly  ever  do.  Say  once  a  twelvemonth,  like  a  spring 

57 


58  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

clean.  It's  going  to  be  a  lovely  day,  isn't  it?  The  fog 
is  beginning  to  break.  I  should  like  it  to  be  sultry  and 
blue,  like  a  day  in  Italy.  Hey-ho!  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
get  up." 

"You  had  much  better  go  to  sleep  again,"  said  Dodo, 
shutting  the  door  behind  her  and  sitting  on  the  bed.  "I 
came  in  to  know  what  time  you  meant  to  start,  but  I 
think  you  had  much  better  not  go  at  all.  Stay  another 
day — what  does  it  signify,  if  you're  only  going  down  to 
this  horrid  little  place  in  Dorsetshire,  wherever  it  is? 
You  won't  like  it  a  bit  when  you  get  there,  you'll  wish 
you  were  back  at  Shotton."  Maisie  chuckled  like  a 
schoolboy;  she  thought  that  very  probable.  "Oh,  you 
may  laugh!"  said  Dodo  crossly.  "But  you  won't  be  a 
bit  happy.  You're  a  most  gregarious  person,  Maisie. 
You'll  hate  being  all  alone." 

"Now  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  don't  much  want  to  go," 
Maisie  replied.  She  told  no  lies,  black,  white,  or  gray; 
she  had  never  said  that  she  would  be  alone,  and  she  did 
not  say  so  now.  The  inference  was  drawn  from  what 
she  left  unsaid.  "But  no,  thanks — I  won't  stay.  My 
plans  are  all  settled  and  my  trunks  are  packed.  Ellen 
is  in  the  sulks  already  because  I've  just  broken  it  to 
her  that  she's  to  stop  in  town,  and  I  don't  know  what 
would  happen  if  I  told  her  to  unpack  me  again.  She's 
a  slave-driver,  is  Nelly;  she  likes  to  maid  me  up  to  my 
eyelids,  and  I  really  rather  hate  being  maided.  I  succeed 
in  getting  rid  of  her  now  aad  then,  but  she  gives  me  a 
hot  time  of  it  when  I  do." 

"If  my  maid  rode  over  me  like  that  I  should  get  rid  of 
her  permanently." 

"Not  if  she'd  been  with  you  ten  years,  you  wouldn't. 
Nelly  dates  from  my  Cinderella  days.  She  was  kitchen- 
maid  at  the  John  Archdales'.  She  gives  me  notice  when 
she  feels  that  way  inclined,  but  I  never  give  her  notice. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  59 

I  dress  her  down  HOW  and  then,  but  not  when  she's  out 
of  temper,  because  if  I  did  there  would  be  a  row,  and  I 
hate  rows.  Did  you  want  to  arrange  about  my  going  to 
the  station?  Because  you  needn't  worry,  I  shan't  go 
by  train.  I  have  a  little  car  of  my  own  stabled  at  the 
inn,  and  I  shall  run  her  over  myself." 

"Stabled  at  the  inn !" 

"Yes.  I  wouldn't  bother  you  to  put  her  up.  I  know 
Mr.  Ferrier  hates  having  the  garage  crowded  full  of 
other  people's  cars.  I  told  them  to  send  her  round  at 
ten  o'clock.  Ellen  and  the  luggage  can  go  behind."  She 
raised  herself  on  her  arm  and  glanced  out  of  the  window. 
"So  don't  ask  me  to  stay,  Dodo.  I  can't.  I  should 
rather  like  to." 

"I  can't  imagine  why  you  should  go  to  Dorsetshire  if 
you  don't  want  to  go." 

"I  said  I  would  and  I  will.  I  expect  I'm  a  bit  of 
a  fatalist.  It  was  ordained  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  and  what  does  it  matter,  after  all?  My  life's 
my  own,"  said  Maisie,  looking  up  at  the  veiled  sun.  "In 
the  scheme  of  creation,  I  don't  see  how  one  woman's  life 
can  matter  very  much  to  any  one  except  herself.  Why 
shouldn't  I  do  as  I  like?" 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Maisie." 

"I  don't  understand  myself.  Occasionally,  in  fact,  I 
have  a  gloomy  notion  that  I  don't  understand  anything 
at  all — that  I'm  wandering  about  among  natural  laws 
like  a  civilian  in  an  engine-room.  Dodo,  did  you  ever 
lie  still  and  watch  something  coming  on  you  that  you 
were  afraid  of — something  you  couldn't  believe  would 
ever  happen,  and  yet  all  the  while  you  knew  it  was  going 
to  happen,  but  you  set  your  teeth  and  pretended  it 
wouldn't?" 

"H'm.    Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"That's  what  I've  been  doing  these  last  few  days." 


60  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"And  now  it  has  happened,  has  it?" 

"No :  but  it  was  borne  in  on  me  last  night  that  it  will," 
said  Maisie  dryly.  "That's  why  I  lay  awake." 

She  folded  her  arms  behind  her  head  and  stretched 
herself  indolently  at  full  length.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
nice,  Dodo?" 

"  'Hope  so,"  said  Dodo,  smiling.    "I  like  you." 

"I  know  you  do.  I  like  you  for  liking  me.  I  love  to 
be  liked."  She  flung  out  one  hand  swiftly  and  clasped 
it  over  her  friend's.  "Dodo,  what  little  hands  you  have ! 
Yours  will  go  right  inside  mine.  But  then  I'm  so  tall: 
oh,  bother !  I  think  I'm  too  tall  for  a  woman.  I  wish  I 
were  a  man.  No,  I  don't,  though." 

"You're  rather  like  a  man  in  some  ways." 

"I  ?    What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Let  me  see,  what  do  I  mean?"  said  Dodo  doubtfully. 
"Well,  in  the  first  place,  you're  very  independent.  I 
suppose  that's  partly  because  of  your  money ;  few  women 
can  afford  to  pay  their  footing  anywhere  as  you  can, 
and  even  when  we're  rich  we're  as  a  rule  more  or  less 
accountable  to  some  one  or  other.  Any  one  but  Mr. 
FitzGerald  would  have  tied  you  up  in  leading  strings. 
Still,  money  apart,  it  is  like  a  man,  you  know,  the  way 
you  come  and  go  in  your  own  car,  and  settle  your  own 
plans  independently  of  anybody  else,  and  hold  your  tongue 
about  your  own  affairs.  And  you  have  a  man's  sort  of 
temper." 

"Bad  temper?"  Maisie  asked  with  a  twist  of  her  eye- 
brows. 

"You?  no!  I  never  knew  any  one  less  irritable  than 
you  are.  You  never  fuss,  and  you  never  turn  a  hair 
over  small  annoyances.  You  have  a  large  grand  good 
humor,  my  dear,  that  shines  down  like  the  sun  over  all 
sorts  of  petty  people  and  petty  things.  Look  at  the  way 
you  bear  with  that  Virgin  Vinegar  of  yours !" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  61 

"Oh,  I  say,  Dodo — poor  old  Nelly !  She'd  say  I  tram- 
ple on  her." 

"That's  just  it."  Dodo  laughed  in  Miss  Archdale's 
humorously  protestant  face.  "I'm  sure  you  do!  Most 
women  would  either  get  rid  of  her  or  give  in  to  her,  but 
you  walk  over  the  top  of  her.  She  would  get  on  my 
nerves  in  half  no  time,  but  she  doesn't  get  on  yours. 
You  haven't  any." 

"I  know  I  haven't,"  said  Maisie  apologetically.  "It 
comes  of  being  so  healthy.  How  can  you  run  to  nerves 
when  you  never  have  an  ache  or  a  pain?  It  makes  me 
rather  dense,  though,"  she  added.  "I  expect  if  I  had 
a  violent  illness  I  should  be  much  more  sympathetic 
afterwards.  Mrs.  John  Archdale  always  said  I  had  no 
tact." 

"You  haven't  much — not  that  she  knows  anything 
about  it.  You  haven't  nerves  in  the  tips  of  all  your  men- 
tal fingers,  as  most  clever  women  have."  Dodo  hesitated, 
but  the  moment  seemed  to  be  ripe  for  offering  a  caution 
which  had  long  halted  on  her  tongue,  and  she  relied  upon 
Miss  Archdale  to  tolerate  blunt  speech.  "Maisie,  the 
other  night  at  dinner,  when  you  were  talking  to  Mark 
Sturt  about  his  political  position,  and  his  chance  of  office 
if  they  reorganize  the  Ministry,  didn't  you  know  he  hated 
having  that  sort  of  thing  dragged  out  of  him  before 
other  people?" 

"No,"  said  Maisie,  blushing  slowly  and  deeply.  "I'm 
sorry." 

"I  was  sure  you  didn't.  Well,  never  mind,"  Dodo  con- 
soled her.  "Your  innocence  protects  you,  darling.  If 
any  other  woman  had  done  it  Mark  would  have  got 
restive,  not  to  say  rude,  but  the  men  seem  to  look  on 
you  as  a  chartered  libertine." 

"Midway  between  a  professional  beauty  and  a  jolly 
good  fellow." 


62  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Something  of  the  sort,"  Dodo  agreed,  unable  to  help 
laughing,  though  she  was  sorry  to  have  wounded  her 
friend,  on  whose  fair  neck  the  blush  still  lingered.  "They 
like  you  all  the  better  for  it,  I  believe;  anyhow  I  do. 
You  would  be  too  formidable,  darling,  if  you  weren't  a 
little  stupid  now  and  then." 

"Am  I  formidable?" 

"I  should  not  care  to  have  you  for  an  enemy.  You 
hit  hard,  and  you're  not  afraid  of  anything." 

"Or  any  ome?" 

"My  dear,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing.  You  can't  help,"  said  Maisie.  She  turned 
sideways  for  a  moment,  hiding  her  face  on  the  pillow, 
her  right  hand  still  folded  over  Dodo's  small  fingers. 
"I'm  terrified.  I've  been  terrified  all  night.  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  jumping  over  a  precipice.  Do  you  really  like  me? 
You  must  be  jolly  stupid  if  you  do.  I  hate  myself.  I 
could — I  could  whip  myself  at  the  cart's  tail.  That's 
what  I  deserve — to  be  beaten  through  the  town  in  my 
shift.  I'm  not  nice.  No  nice-minded  woman  ought  to 
like  me.  I  detest  myself  and  I  wish  I  were  dead." 

"Gracious!"  said  Dodo  feebly. 

"I  wish  I  had  the  pluck  to  get  up  and  shoot  myself," 
Maisie  went  on,  flinging  out  the  words  as  if  it  were  a 
physical  relief  to  be  frank.  "I  haven't,  dear,  so  you 
needn't  be  alarmed ;  besides,  I  don't  want  to  die  just  yet 
— not  till  I've  had  my  own  way.  I'm  going  to  take  it. 
Why  shouldn't  I?  I've  never  had  it  yet.  I  will  jump 
over  my  precipice  if  I  break  my  neck  for  it.  Who  knows  ? 
The  gods  may  relent  and  let  me  off.  I  shan't  think  much 
of  their  intelligence  if  they  do.  A  woman  who  does 
what  I'm  doing  deserves  to  be  made  to  suffer,  and  I 
hope  I  shall  suffer.  I  deserve  humiliation  and  I  hope 
I  shall  get  it.  If  I  am  beaten,  I'll  kiss  the  rod." 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  said  Dodo.    Her  manner 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  63 

had  changed;  she  was  grave,  simple,  and  direct.  "I 
thought  you  were  half  in  fun  at  first,  but  now  I  see  you're 
in  earnest.  I  don't  want  to  misjudge  you,  but  it  sounds 
as  though  you  were  going  to  plunge  into  a  rather  bad 
scrape.  Don't  you  do  it,  Maisie.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Not  one  word." 

"Is  it  connected  with  your  going  to  Dorsetshire?" 
Maisie  smiled,  impenetrable. 

"Are  you — is  there — are  you  giving  any  man  a  hold 
over  you,  Maisie  ?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then,  "Not  as  you  fear. 
Fors  Vhonneur,  Dorothea." 

"Thanks,"  said  Dodo,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  She 
stooped  over  Maisie  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  "I  know 
you  aren't  angry."  Maisie  flung  her  arm  round  her 
friend's  neck  and  held  her  down  for  a  moment,  Dodo's 
cheek  against  her  own. 

"Dodo,  if  I  come  to  some  sort  of  panoramic  smash — 
which  appears  to  me  to  be  on  the  cards — will  you  stick 
to  me?  I'd  stick  to  you.  I  love  you,  Dodo.  Really  I 
do.  And  I  should  like  to  feel  that  there  was  just  one 
woman  in  the  world  that  wouldn't  take  her  hand  out  of 
mine  whatever  happened.  May  I  believe  that  of  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you'll  keep  my  confidence?" 

"Of  course." 

"You  married  women  are  dangerous.  You  tell  your 
husbands,"  Maisie  murmured  with  a  laughing  accent. 
"It  must  be  very  queer  to  be  married.  Is  it  agreeable, 
Dorothea?  I  can't  imagine  what  it  would  be  like." 

"Find  out,"  said  Dodo,  smiling  broadly.  "I  should 
love  to  see  you  married." 

"Well,  you  never  will,"  said  Maisie.  Her  grip  on 
Dodo's  hand  had  been  strong  enough  to  be  painful,  but 
it  relaxed  now,  and  she  shook  back  her  hair  and  sat  up 


64  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

with  a  merry  laugh.  "What  a  shame,  isn't  it?  as  Mr. 
Sturt  says.  Now  you  had  better  run  along  and  let  me 
dress.  I've  only  forty  minutes,  and  I  shall  probably 
have  to  finish  packing  for  myself.  I  wish  Ellen  had  a 
temper  like  you  describe  mine,  but  she  hasn't.  I  don't 
suppose  she'll  even  turn  up  to  strap  my  boxes." 

"But  that's  outrageous!  Why  don't  you  ring  her 
up?" 

Miss  Archdale  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  she  sprang 
out  of  bed.  "Too  much  fag.  I'm  going  to  have  my 
bath  now,  dear.  I  don't  a  bit  mind  your  stopping,  if  you 
don't." 

Upon  this  vigorous  hint  Dodo  fled  in  disorder,  but  her 
eyes  were  twinkling :  oh,  how  like  Maisie ! 

Forty-five  minutes  later  Miss  Archdale  was  on  her 
way  to  town;  not  a  direct  route  from  North  Hampshire 
to  the  Dorset  coast,  but  the  detour,  as  Maisie  carelessly 
explained,  was  necessary  to  keep  a  business  appointment. 
Careless  she  was,  and  merry,  for  the  night-watches  were 
over  and  the  die  was  cast;  one  may  reflect  on  the  brink 
of  a  precipice,  but  where  is  the  use  of  reflecting  after 
one  has  jumped  over  it? 

At  half -past  twelve  she  pulled  up  before  the  door  of 
her  own  tiny  house  in  Mayfair,  where  she  had  arranged 
to  drop  Ellen  and  the  car,  with  all  her  luggage  except 
the  single  trunk  that  was  packed  to  go  to  Dorsetshire. 
Her  selection  of  necessaries  for  a  week  in  the  country 
puzzled  Ellen,  who  had  been  told  that  the  White  Cottage 
was  a  cottage  and  nothing  more,  and  that  its  address 
would  not  be  given  to  her,  because  Maisie  was  going  to 
spend  a  week  in  idleness  and  go  nowhere  and  do  nothing 
and  see  no  one.  "But  if  she  don't  want  to  see  no  one," 
mused  Ellen,  "why  have  she  gone  and  taken  them  French 
gowns  and  all  that  new  lingery?"  Maisie's  Dorsetshire 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  65 

trunk  contained,  besides  the  tweed  suits  and  shooting 
boots  which  Ellen  thought  appropriate,  two  or  three  em- 
broidered dresses  of  the  airiest  French  extravagance, 
together  with  piles  of  chiffon  and  lawn,  richer  and  more 
delicate  than  Maisie  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing.  "If 
it  had  been  anybody  but  Miss  Maisie !"  said  Ellen,  shak- 
ing her  head.  But  Maisie  made  a  good  conspirator,  for 
she  concealed  little  and  explained  nothing.  Her  bold  in- 
difference to  comment  carried  her  over  quicksands  which 
would  have  sucked  down  warier  feet. 

She  was  not  hungry,  but  she  obliged  herself  to  sit 
down  quietly  to  the  lunch  that  was  provided  for  her,  and 
to  drink  her  cup  of  soup  and  eat  her  bread  and  butter, 
because  she  had  need  of  fresh  bloom  and  steady  nerves. 
Afterwards  she  went  to  her  own  room  to  wash  her  face 
and  change  her  dress ;  and  strange  it  was  to  think,  as 
she  entered  her  chamber,  that  the  maiden  Maisie  Arch- 
dale  would  never  enter  it  again.  It  was  the  only  room 
in  the  May  fair  house  that  bore  the  print  of  her  own  taste, 
and  it  was  very  spacious,  dark,  and  easy;  the  woodwork 
all  of  chestnut  in  its  native  dusky  grain;  flowers,  pale 
in  color  and  rich  in  scent,  overflowing  the  low  window- 
sill;  some  large  landscapes  on  the  walls,  a  couple  of 
Danish  interiors,  strange  bare  studies  of  light  and  shade, 
and  a  couple  of  portraits  insolently  French.  While  she 
fastened  her  veil,  she  lingered  for  some  moments  before 
the  mirror.  It  showed  her  a  tall  girl  in  a  gray  suit,  her 
eyes  shaded  by  a  gypsy  hat,  the  long  lapels  of  her  habit- 
shaped  coat  opening  over  a  frilled  shirt  of  fine  lawn  and 
a  beautiful  bare  throat,  the  lawn  frills  at  her  wrist  falling 
back  from  a  beautiful  hand  which  wore  no  ring  except 
the  signet  of  Bridget  Sturt.  A  glint  of  gold  was  visible 
at  her  breast,  and  she  felt  for  it  and  drew  it  out :  a  long 
chain,  and  a  locket  that  held  a  miniature.  "Oh!  my 
own  Philip,  my  darling,"  Maisie  whispered.  She 


66  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

kissed  the  portrait  before  slipping  it  back  into  its  warm 
nest. 

When  she  came  downstairs  a  taxi  was  in  waiting,  and 
Maisie  was  driven  first  to  Waterloo,  where  she  put  her 
trunk  in  the  cloakroom,  and  then  on  to  Lane  Street.  It 
wanted  ten  minutes  of  two  o'clock  when  she  sprang  out 
on  the  steps  of  St.  Casimir's,  and  she  glanced  up  and 
down  the  street,  but  Mark  was  not  in  sight.  A  desire 
to  act  up  to  the  traditions  of  a  wedding  induced  her  to 
give  the  cabman  half  a  sovereign;  he  drove  off  blessing 
his  luck,  and  Maisie  was  left  alone.  Some  ragged  chil- 
dren stared  and  jeered  at  her  from  their  sport  in  the 
gutter.  A  truculent  woman  in  a  dirty  bodice,  torn  open 
and  flapping  back  from  her  generous  bosom,  came  out 
of  a  pawnshop  over  the  way  and  vanished  into  a  public- 
house.  July  sunshine  streamed  down  over  the  mean 
west  front  of  the  church,  its  red  and  white  brickwork, 
its  stucco  tracery,  the  grimy  babies  playing  on  its  grimy 
steps.  Minutes  passed.  A  knot  of  loafers  lounged  out 
of  the  bar  and  stared  at  Maisie;  one  of  them  made  an 
inaudible  joke,  and  the  others  laughed.  Anger  schooled 
her  to  wait  quietly,  but  her  heart  throbbed  as  if  she  had 
been  running,  and  though  it  was  a  fiery  July  day  waves 
of  chill  went  over  her.  In  all  her  night  fears,  this  one 
fear  that  Mark  would  fail  her  had  never  crossed  her 
mind;  and  isn't  it  the  thing  we  have  never  feared  that 
happens  to  us?  At  length  a  thin  bell  jingled  out  the 
hour.  Then  Maisie  forced  herself  to  open  the  pitch- 
pine  door,  studded  with  imitation  nails,  much  as  she 
would  have  forced  herself  to  lie  down  on  an  operating 
table.  Had  Mark  failed  her? 

Without  roared  the  sunlit  squalor  of  a  London  slum: 
within,  the  mystery  of  the  faith  of  ages  brooded  over 
silent  aisles.  Shut  in  by  high  roofs,  and  paned  with 
stained  glass,  the  church  was  very  dark.  It  still  smelt 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  67 

of  Sunday  incense ;  black  rafters  and  gray  pillars  loomed 
out  of  a  bluish  haze.  A  lamp  burned  red  and  dim  be- 
fore the  high  altar,  and  at  the  entrance  of  the  Sanctuary, 
beside  a  low  screen  of  carved  marble,  a  wrought-iron 
tripod  carried  a  score  or  more  of  burning  candles,  a  gar- 
land of  fire,  whose  use  and  purpose  Maisie  did  not  un- 
derstand. What  she  did  understand — what  filled  her 
full  of  an  immeasurable  peace,  a  child's  feeling  of  secur- 
ity, strangely  dashed  with  pain — was  the  sight  of  Mark 
Sturt,  calmly  kneeling  upright  on  a  tall  praying  chair, 
his  face  turned  towards  the  mystery  of  the  altar.  Used 
as  she  was,  in  the  men  of  her  own  church,  either  to  an 
excessive  and  self-conscious  reverence  or  to  no  reverence 
at  all,  Maisie  was  strangely  touched  by  the  unaffected 
austerity  and  simplicity  of  the  Catholic.  He  was  there, 
and  in  his  hands  she  was  safe;  and  yet  between  them 
Tolled  the  unplumbed  seas  that  estrange  the  skeptic  from 
the  mystic.  He  was  to  be  her  husband ;  and  in  that  mo- 
ment Maisie  knew  that  she  was  jealous  of  Mark  Sturt's 
faith  because  he  would  always  set  the  will  of  God  above 
her  will  or  his  own. 

Sturt  stood  up  when  she  entered,  bent  his  knee  to 
the  Host,  and  came  striding  down  the  aisle.  Maisie 
had  gone  through  so  many  emotions  in  the  last  ten  min- 
utes that  she  was  as  much  bewildered  as  relieved  when 
she  discovered  him  to  be  his  unchanged  normal  self.  He 
spoke  in  his  softest  undertone,  but  with  no  parade  of 
reverence.  "How  are  you?"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with 
her.  "You  look  very  nice.  Am  I  dressed  properly? 
It  is  so  hot  that  I  let  myself  off  a  frock  coat.  I  hope 
you  don't  mind." 

"No,"  said  Maisie,  smiling  faintly. 

"Do  you  like  lilies  of  the  valley?"  Mark  asked.  "I 
thought  you  ought  to  have  some  flowers.  These  are  wild 
ones  from  Longstone  Edge,  my  old  home.  May  I — ?" 


68  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Green  sheath  and  ivory  bell,  he  tucked  them  deftlj  into 
the  front  of  her  coat. 
"They  are  very  late." 

"They  linger  in  the  high  woods.  As  for  this,  it  is 
banality  itself,  but  you  might  wear  it  to  please  me.  I 
knew  I  couldn't  beat  the  Archdale  diamonds,  Maisie, 
so  I  declined  on  pearls  to  match  your  throat." 

"You  have  charming  manners,  Mark,"  Maisie  mur- 
mured. "Oh,  what  a  lovely  clasp !" 

"It  was  my  mother's.  I'm  so  glad  you  like  them."  He 
smiled  in  his  whimsical  way.  "It  was  one  for  you,  dear, 
and  two  for  myself.  I  hate  diamonds  and  colored  stones, 
but  I  love  pearls,  and  I  know  a  bit  about  them.  Man- 
ton's  a  great  pal  of  mine."  He  saw  that  she  had  recov- 
ered herself.  "Father  de  Trafford  is  waiting  in  the 
vestry.  Oh,  let  me  take  your  gloves  off,  shall  I?  I'll 
stuff  them  into  my  pocket  if  you  like."  Drawing  off  her 
long  gray  gauntlets,  she  felt  him  start  when  he  recog- 
nized his  ring  on  her  hand.  "You're  ready  now,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 
"Take  my  arm,"  said  Mark. 

Stains  of  red  and  blue  from  the  rich  foreign  glass 
fell  on  the  pavement  as  they  passed  up  the  aisle.  Years 
later  Maisie  learned  that  those  moths'- wing  panes  were 
a  thank-offering  of  Arthur  Sturt  for  the  safe  return  of 
his  sons  from  the  war;  so  the  generations  are  linked 
together,  and  man's  work  outlives  man.  The  church  was 
very  quiet.  There  was  no  one  in  it  but  the  priest,  the 
bride,  the  bridegroom,  the  clerk,  and  the  witnesses  pro- 
vided by  Father  de  Trafford — a  fat  little  sacristan  and 
his  own  elderly  servant.  Remembering  that  Mark  had 
spoken  of  de  Trafford  in  terms  of  personal  intimacy, 
Maisie  looked  at  him,  and  found  that  he  was  looking 
at  her.  Was  he  interested  in  the  heretic  who  was  mar- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  69 

rying  one  of  his  flock?  What  a  refined  ascetic  face  it 
was !  And  young,  much  younger  than  she  had  anticipated 
— four  or  five  years  younger  than  Mark  Sturt." 

"Marce,  wilt  thou  take  Marcella  here  present  to  thy 
wedded  wife  according  to  the  rite  of  Holy  Mother 
Church?" 

"I  will." 

How  the  priest's  voice  softened  when  he  spoke  Mark's 
name!  They  were  friends,  then,  these  two?  As  the 
priest  turned  to  Maisie,  she  submitted  herself  to  the 
flash  of  his  blue  eyes :  but  how  stern  they  were,  and 
how  searching  in  their  authority !  A  gust  of  anger  shook 
her,  and  all  that  she  had  ever  heard  of  Rome's  power 
rushed  into  her  Protestant  mind.  How  much  did  he 
know,  this  worn,  delicate-featured  man  to  whom  Mark 
Sturt  confessed  probably  every  secret  of  his  inner  life? 

"Marcella,  wilt  thou  take  Marcus  here  present  .  .  .  ?" 

"I  will." 

("Give"  me  your  hand,  dear,"  Mark  whispered.) 

He  clasped  her  right  hand  in  his  own.  "I,  Marcus, 
take  thee,  Marcella,  to  my  wedded  wife,  to  have  and 
to  hold  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse, 
for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till  death 
us  do  part,  if  Holy  Church  will  it  permit,  and  thereto  I 
plight  thee  my  troth." 

"I,  Maisie " 

"I,  Marcella " 

"Oh — I,  Marcella,  take  thee,  Mark,  to  my  wedded  hus- 
band .  .  ."  She  stumbled  softly  through  the  solemnly 
familiar  clauses  and  the  unfamiliar  reservation,  and  lost 
herself  for  a  moment  while  the  priest's  voice  ran  on, 
low  and  level,  "I  join  you  in  marriage."  It  was  but  a 
short  ceremony  after  all,  and  very  little  different  from 
the  Anglican.  But  now  Mark  Sturt  was  giving  her 
money — half  a  sovereign:  what  in  the  world  did  he 


70  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

expect  her  to  do  with  half  a  sovereign?    She  held  the 
coin  helplessly  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"With  this  ring,"  said  Sturt  under  his  breath,  "I  thee 
wed,  this  gold  and  silver  I  thee  give,  with  my  body  I 
thee  worship,  and  with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  thee  en- 
dow. (Other  hand,  please.)"  He  drew  his  mother's 
signet  from  her  left  hand  slipped  the  wedding  ring  in 
turn  over  her  thumb,  forefinger,  middle  finger,  and  ring 
finger :  "In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen."  He  replaced  the  signet, 
and  almost  immediately  sank  on  his  knees.  Years  later 
Maisie  learned,  by  chance,  how  he  had  longed  for  the 
nuptial  mass  and  the  nuptial  benediction,  privileges  de- 
nied to  those  who  marry  out  of  the  Faith. 

Sturt  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out  into  the 
blinding  sunshine.  The  children  playing  on  the  steps  set 
up  a  thin  derisive  cheer,  and  he  plunged  his  hand  into 
his  pocket  and  flung  them  a  handful  of  coppers,  which 
scattered  them  right  and  left  in  a  trice,  tKeir  noses  in 
the  gutter. 

"Five  and  twenty  past  two.  What  time  did  you  say 
your  train  went?" 

"Two  fifty-four.     I  get  to  Ushant  before  six." 

"Mine  leaves  at  half-past  three  and  doesn't  get  in  till 
seven.  Rotten  journey,  isn't  it?  Always  is,  when  you 
have  to  change.  Here  comes  your  cab ;  I  ordered  it  for 
you.  Can  you  really  manage  to  take  my  suit-case  with 
your  own  trunk?  because,  if  so,  here's  the  cloakroom 
counterfoil.  I  suppose  I  mustn't  see  you  off  at  Wa- 
terloo?" 

"Better  not,  don't  you  think?  One  so  often  meets 
people  one  knows." 

"Well,  good-by  for  the  present,"  said  Mark,  opening 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  71 

the  door  of  the  taxi.  Maisie  slipped  in  and  sank  down 
on  the  cushions  as  though  she  were  tired.  She  heard 
Mark  speak  to  the  driver,  and  then  he  came  back  to  her 
and  lingered,  folding  his  arms  on  the  door.  "You  look 
a  bit  fagged,"  he  said,  examining  her  narrowly.  "I 
expect  you  haven't  had  much  to  eat.  Better  get  a  lunch- 
basket  at  Waterloo,  what  ?  I'm  going  to  a  club.  By  the 
bye,  I've  paid  your  driver,  Maisie.  I  hope  you  don't 
mind." 

"Paid  my  driver  !'* 

"So  sorry  if  it  embarrasses  you,  but  the  fact  is  I  never 
heard  of  any  man  letting  his  wife  pay  her  own  fares  on 
her  honeymoon,  and  I  was  afraid  it  might  invalidate 
the  marriage.  Here's  your  ticket.  Don't  drop  it."  He 
laid  it  on  her  knee.  "Take  care,  your  lilies  are  falling 
out.  Shall  I  tuck  them  in  for  you?" 

"Not  in  Lane  Street,  dear  boy !" 

"Oh,  why  not?"  He  unfastened  the  top  button  of  her 
coat  and  deftly  knotted  the  ribbon  of  her  lilies  through 
the  buttonhole ;  then  as  he  re  fastened  it,  under  his  breath, 
in  aa  accent  remarkably  at  odds  with  the  tranquil  cold- 
ness of  his  manner  and  attitude,  "Your  throat  is  as  white 
as  your  lilies,  Maisie,  and  whiter  than  your  pearls." 

"My  dear  Mark,  you'll  make  me  lose  my  train." 

"Oh,  by  Jove,  so  I  shall.    That  would  never  do." 

He  fell  back,  lifting  his  hat,  and  Maisie  was  borne 
away.  When  Mark  turned  to  reenter  the  church  he 
found  that  Father  de  Tr afford  had  come  out  of  it  in  his 
cassock  and  was  standing  behind  him  on  the  steps. 
Mark's  face  changed.  Their  eyes  met,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment Mark  looked  down.  He  touched  de  Trafford's  arm 
without  speaking. 

"I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  Mark,"  said  the  priest 
with  his  gay  smile.  "Come !  why  do  you  look  so  gloomy  ? 


72  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

It  is  not  like  you  to  be  nervous  or  undecided.  Your 
good  lady  is  wonderfully  beautiful.  Why  did  you  never 
tell  me  she  was  so  young?" 

"So  young?    She's  twenty-three." 

"She  is  still  a  child,"  said  the  priest. 

"Your  penetration,  Father,  is  for  once  at  fault.  She 
is  a  finished  woman  of  the  world  with  I  don't  know 
how  many  thousand  a  year,  and  she  has  refused  a  dozen 
men." 

"And  has  accepted  you.  How  very  strange!  She 
has  the  eyes  of  a  child  or  a  very  young  girl,  Marce  mi. 
I  don't  understand  her,  but  I  congratulate  you  with  all 
my  heart,  and  I  wish  you  happiness." 

"Happiness,"  repeated  Mark  dreamily. 

He  shook  himself  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  vigorous 
effort  and  unfastened  his  pocket-book.  "Thanks,  no 
doubt  I  shall  be  very  happy.  What  was  it  your  Rever- 
ence was  telling  me  the  other  night  about  the  riverside 
mission?  Here's  something  for  you  to  play  with;  make 
what  use  of  it  you  like." 

De  Trafford  glanced  at  the  sum  named  in  the  check. 
"But,  my  dear  fellow,  this  is  a  mistake!  You've  writ- 
ten the  wrong  figures  .  .  .  You  really  mean  it  ?  Mark, 
I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you " 

Sturt's  own  brougham  had  drawn  up  by  the  curb,  the 
versatile  Henham  at  the  wheel.  Sturt  halted  with  one 
foot  on  the  step,  turning  an  inexpressive  face  to  his 
friend.  "Pray  for  me,"  he  said.  "I  can  do  with  it." 


CHAPTER   V 

MARK'S  train  was  late:  it  was  ten  minutes  past 
seven  when  he  got  out  at  Ushant  station.  He 
had  no  luggage  to  see  after,  and  was  soon  swinging  along 
a  level  country  road  which  ran  at  first  through  a  strag- 
gling village  street.  Low-browed  Dorsetshire  cottages 
stood  sunning  themselves  in  the  light  of  a  pleasant,  almost 
cloudless  evening.  Small  children,  of  healthier  aspect 
than  Father  de  Trafford's  black  lambs,  were  playing 
about  in  and  out  of  open  doorways,  and  they  looked  up 
open-mouthed  at  the  strange  gentleman  as  he  went  by. 
Mark,  in  homespun  tweeds  and  a  Panama  hat,  cut  an 
altogether  unfamiliar  figure  in  Ushant  street  with  his 
great  height  and  drilled  shoulders  and  easy,  swinging 
stride  from  the  hips.  If  they  were  interested  in  him, 
however,  the  feeling  was  reciprocated,  for  Mark  from 
the  outset  liked  the  look  of  the  little  place,  its  unsophisti- 
cated quiet  and  its  pleasant  country  smells.  The  sur- 
vival of  the  thatcher's  craft  appeared  in  strips  and  patches 
of  honey-colored  straw,  combed  smooth  and  trimmed  off 
razor-clean,  amid  the  dim  and  ragged  brown  of  the  un- 
repaired roofs.  Each  little  garden  had  its  plot  of  late 
pinks  or  early  phlox,  or  summer-long  mignonette  and 
roses,  and  their  ordered  sweetness  brought  an  indescrib- 
able feeling  of  refreshment  to  the  heart  of  a  man  who 
loved  rural  England  far  better  than  Mayfair.  He  was 
soothed  also  by — what  never  fails  to  impress  a  towns- 
man— the  intense  quiet  which  brooded  over  everything, 
a  quiet  as  intimate  and  profound  as  the  quiet  of  the 
solemn  blue  sky,  and  which  seemed  only  to  be  accen- 

73 


74  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

tuated  by  the  small  sounds  that  broke  it:  the  cling-clang 
of  a  bicycle  bell,  the  barking  of  a  dog  in  a  yard,  the 
clink  of  hammer  on  anvil  in  the  smoking  furnace  of  a 
forge.  As  he  was  leaving  the  village  behind  him,  the 
church  bells  began  to  ring;  Ushant  possessed  a  peal  of 
six,  mellowed  by  age  to  a  plaintive  harmony,  and  from 
time  immemorial  the  ringers,  whose  office  was  hereditary 
in  half  a  dozen  families,  had  been  accustomed  to  practice 
on  a  Monday  evening.  Other  lands,  other  manners :  this 
peal  ringing  out  of  the  stone  brooch-spire  had  for  Mark 
Sturt  the  sacred  sweetness  of  the  Angelus. 

But  now  the  last  houses  had  strung  themselves  out 
behind  him,  and  he  swung  on  iato  the  empty  country 
east  and  south  towards  the  sea.  For  a  long  time  there 
was  nothing  remarkable  in  his  surroundings ;  the  broad 
road,  raised  slightly  and  dyked  on  either  side  beyond 
broad  ribbons  of  grass,  rolled  on  out  of  sight  between 
broad  fields  of  barley,  or  sainfoin,  or  mustard,  varied 
only  by  an  occasional  patch  of  trees  or  the  shade  of  an 
occasional  avenue.  A  chain  of  low  blue  hills  lay  along 
the  landward  horizon.  Then  gradually,  as  he  went  on, 
the  country  began  to  rise  all  about  him  in  slow  undula- 
tions; the  crops  grew  poor,  were  striped  with  scanty 
pasture;  insensibly  the  arable  land  was  melting  into 
down-land  and  the  wide  view  across  the  plain  was  ex- 
changed for  a  broken  prospect,  sometimes  opening  far 
out  over  the  fertile  distance,  but  embraced  at  every  turn 
by  the  soft  breasts  of  the  hills. 

And  the  air,  which  had  all  along  smelt  of  seaweed 
and  spray,  began  to  freshen ;  the  tang  of  salt  in  it  sharp- 
ened ;  Mark  breathed  it  ia  with  expanded  chest — he  was 
nearing  the  sea.  Strange  it  was  that  he  had  not  yet 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  since  leaving  the  train,  but  he  re- 
membered that  in  this  part  of  Dorsetshire  the  inland 
country  slopes  up  to  the  coastline  of  cliffs.  At  last,  the 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  75 

road  rising  over  a  small  eminence,  the  Channel  came 
into  view,  but  still  only  as  a  distant  field  of  silver  round- 
ing off  the  gaps  between  the  hills.  At  the  same  time  the 
road,  apparently  thinking  that  it  had  gone  as  near  the 
coast  as  it  cared  to  go,  took  a  decided  bend  to  the  left, 
with  the  sweet  irresponsibility  of  roads  built  by  the  mud- 
dle-headed English  race  and  not  by  the  trenchant  Roman. 
Mark  halted  and  pulled  out  his  map,  on  which  Maisie 
had  traced  out  a  course  for  him  in  red  ink.  Yes!  here 
the  road  bent  to  the  left,  "and  a  little  farther  on,"  Maisie 
had  written,  her  bold  "park-paling"  hand  cramped  into 
the  margin,  "you  come  to  a  gibbet  at  a  X-roads.  There 
you  see  rough  track  like  farm  by-way  turning  off  towards 
the  sea.  That  brings  y.  t.  White  Cottage." 

A  few  paces  farther  and  Mark  came  upon  the  strag- 
gling cross-roads,  over  which  a  weather-beaten  gibbet 
and  a  newly  painted  sign-post  combined  to  preside.  And 
there  facing  him  was  the  farm-track — rough  enough  in 
all  conscience ;  Mark  wondered  how  Miss  Archdale  would 
manage  with  her  French  heels  among  its  antiquated  ruts, 
stiffened  in  the  mold  of  the  previous  winter.  Grass  grew 
thickly  over  it,  and  poppies  and  corn  cockles  mingled 
with  the  grass,  and  on  either  side  the  swelling  of  the 
downs  locked  it  from  all  observation  but  that  of  the 
birds  and  the  sky.  It  wound  among  those  low  contours 
for  some  time,  the  air  freshening  at  every  step ;  at  last 
it  turned  a  corner  and  brought  him  out  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  White  Cottage. 

Mark  halted.  Here  was  one  of  those  unforeseen  reve- 
lations which  take  the  most  hardened  traveler's  breath 
with  surprise.  Landward  all  round  him  the  downs  reared 
their  great  chalk  shoulders,  sparsely  covered  with  turf 
where  a  few  sheep  grazed ;  steeply  the  track  wound 
down  between  them,  tumbling  through  a  strait  and  shady 
glen  full  of  smallish  trees ;  a  brook  appeared  out  of 


76  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

nowhere  and  went  prattling  along  by  the  way ;  the  White 
Cottage  itself  crouched  within  a  stone's  throw,  sending 
up  a  thread  of  smoke  from  its  one  chimney,  and  catch- 
ing a  scarlet  glare  on  its  narrow  panes;  but  what  one 
saw  first  and  last  and  beyond  everything  else  was  the 
changeful-changeless  splendor  of  the  sea.  Flat  as  the 
floor  of  a  room  it  lay  spread  out  below  him,  woven  all 
over  in  a  silkwork  of  shining  wrinkles,  and  every  foam- 
less  ripple  danced  in  gold  and  silver  under  the  triumph 
of  the  sunset,  which  was  burning  itself  away  in  strange 
fires  along  the  water's  edge.  The  few  clouds  there  were 
only  made  the  flame  more  ardent,  the  abyss  more  pro- 
found; the  eye  lost  itself  in  that  illimitable  glory.  Et 
lucem  perpetuam.  .  .  .  Was  that  a  stairway  of  burnished 
gold  going  up  out  of  the  sea  into  infinity  ?  and  were  those 
doves'  wings  folded  in  airy  pallor,  unlit,  over  the  fires 
of  sunset? 

Mark  came  up  to  the  White  Cottage  where  it  crouched 
against  a  shoulder  of  the  downs ;  it  had  no  garden,  noth- 
ing but  the  purple  thyme  and  blue  scabious  which  sprang 
wild  in  the  virgin  turf,  and  the  track  he  was  on  led  di- 
rectly to  the  door  and  then  no  farther,  except  as  a  mere 
thread  of  footpath  which  plunged  down  through  the 
glen  to  the  sea.  He  thought  it  the  loneliest  spot  that 
he  had  ever  seen.  But  the  smoke  signified  habitation, 
the  windows  were  all  open,  and  there  was  a  mark  of 
fresh  wheel  tracks  which  had  turned  on  the  level  patch 
before  the  glen.  She  was  there,  then.  Mark  knocked 
at  the  door. 

"Is  it  you,  Mark?    Come  in." 

Mark  came  in,  bending  his  head  to  avoid  the  lintel. 
The  White  Cottage  was  still,  as  Maisie  had  warned  him, 
a  cottage  and  nothing  more,  and  he  incontinently  found 
himself  in  the  kitchen.  He  took  his  hat  off  and  looked 
about  him.  The  first  impression  which  the  place  made 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  77 

on  him  at  his  entry  was  the  same,  mutatis  mutandis,  as  it 
made  on  Maisie — "Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  she  exclaimed, 
"how  big  you  are !"  Mark  felt  as  though,  if  he  stood 
upright,  his  head  would  touch  the  ceiling.  But  it  was  a 
pleasant  place  and  of  a  good  size,  built  with  Government 
money  in  the  days  before  the  cheap  contractor.  It  was 
put  together  of  stone,  covered  with  plaster,  and  washed 
over  with  a  coat  of  chrome-color;  the  roof  was  peaked 
and  raftered  like  the  roof  of  a  garret,  and  the  lattice 
windows  were  small  and  set  low.  The  principal  articles 
of  furniture  were  a  dresser,  set  out  with  blue  crockery; 
a  deal  table ;  a  couple  of  heavy  wooden  chairs ;  a  shining 
modern  stove;  and  rows  of  aluminium  saucepans,  frying- 
pans,  and  other  unknown  utensils,  which  glittered  on  the 
shelves  above  a  little  stone  sink.  Maisie  herself  was 
poking  the  fire  when  he  came  in,  and  after  her  cursory 
greeting  instantly  returned  to  it.  "You're  late,"  she 
said,  "but  I  was  really  rather  glad  because  I've  only  just 
got  the  kettle  to  boil.  It's  always  tiresome  work  strug- 
gling with  a  new  stove,  and  I  couldn't  manage  the  damp- 
ers at  first.  Did  you  find  your  way  easily  by  the  map  ?" 

"Quite,  thanks,"  said  Mark,  laying  down  his  hat  and 
stick  on  a  wooden  locker  under  the  window.  "What  can 
I  do  to  be  useful  ?  I'm  a  nailer  at  cooking." 

"Do  you  want  to?"  said  Maisie  doubtfully.  "That's 
such  a  nice  suit,  it  seems  a  pity  to  spoil  it.  How  much 
did  you  give  for  it?" 

"Twelve  guineas.     It's  new   for  the  occasion." 

"I  thought  it  was.  Didn't  you  bring  some  old  clothes 
with  you — flannels,  or  anything  like  that?" 

"I  did;  they're  in  my  suit-case.  How  did  you  man- 
age about  the  luggage,  by  the  bye  ?  It  never  entered  my 
head  till  after  you  had  driven  off  that  when  you  got  here 
you  would  apparently  have  to  drag  it  out  of  the  trap  by 
yourself." 


78  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"No,  I  brought  a  youth  over  with  me  from  the  inn 
where  I  hired  the  dog-cart.  We  carried  the  boxes  in 
together,  and  afterwards  he  drove  the  cart  home.  Your 
suit-case  is  in  the  other  room,  if  you  would  like  to  go 
straight  in.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  offer  you  a  bath;  I  did 
think  of  having  one  put  in,  but  the  time  was  so  short, 
and  then  there's  no  water  laid  on,  only  a  well  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  it  really  is  rather  a  fag  if  you  have 
to  pump  every  drop  and  carry  it  about  in  a  kettle." 

"  'Couldn't  -think  of  it.  Besides,  you  don't  want  to 
have  a  bath  in  a  bath  when  you  can  have  a  bath  in  the 
sea.  Which  is  the  room?" 

Maisie  left  the  poker  in  the  fire  and  came  to  do  the 
honors  of  the  house.  She  was  wearing  a  serge  dress, 
very  short  in  the  skirt  and  open  at  the  neck ;  her  sleeves 
came  to  her  elbows,  and  she  wore  a  muslin  collar  and 
cuffs,  and  a  white  linen  apron  with  a  bib  and  pockets. 
"Allow  me  to  show  you  over  the  domain,"  she  said. 
"Please  take  particular  notice  so  as  not  to  lose  your  way 
another  time."  She  opened  a  door  on  the  right.  "The 
parlor.  I  haven't  had  time  to  get  it  tidy  yet — I  felt  that 
the  kitchen  was  a  more  vital  matter."  Mark  looked  over 
her  shoulder  into  a,  dim  interior  of  strawberry-cdiorejd 
walls,  oak  furniture,  rose  branches  in  a  Sevres  pot,  and 
a  case  of  boorks  half-unpacked.  "Charming,"  he  said 
politely  Maisie  shut  the  door  again — "To  keep  it  cool," 
she  explained :  "the  kitchen  gets  hot  when  you're  cook- 
ing, though  the  air  is  so  fresh  here  towards  evening  that 
I  don't  think  we  shall  mind  that  much" — and  opened  the 
door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  kitchen.  "Our  room," 
she  said.  "That's  all ;  there  isn't  any  more  to  see." 

Mark  passed  in  while  Maisie  held  the  door  open.  It 
was  the  largest  of  the  three  rooms,  and  the  airiest,  for 
it  had  two  windows  facing  south  and  west,  and  the  south 
window,  which  overlooked  the  Channel,  was  so  much 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  79 

bigger  than  any  other  in  the  place  that  Mark  guessed 
it  to  have  been  recently  put  in.  An  old-fashioned  four- 
post  bedstead  was  flanked  by  a  tall  Ferraran  mirror,  and 
on  a  table  in  the  window  stood  a  Chinese  bowl  full  of 
sweet  peas.  His  own  suit-case,  unstrapped,  stood  beside 
Maisie's  trunk. 

"I've  left  you  half  the  cupboard,"  said  Maisie  cheer- 
fully. "I  unpacked  one  of  my  boxes  to  get  it  out  of 
the  way.  There  is  a  sort  of  shanty  at  the  back  where  I 
keep  coal  and  wood  and  other  oddments,  so  I  shoved  it 
into  that,  and  I  shall  put  the  other  out  there  too  as  soon 
as  I've  had  time  to  clear  it.  I'm  afraid  there  isn't  much 
room  to  spare,  but  it  won't  be  so  bad  when  we've  got 
the  boxes  out  of  the  way." 

She  stood  on  one  leg  with  the  other  foot  drawn  up 
and  kicking  her  ankle,  her  hands  in  her  apron  pockets 
and  her  shoulders  propped  against  the  door,  in  the  happy- 
go-lucky  attitude  of  a  girl  of  sixteen;  the  Greek  curves 
of  her  hair  under  their  gold  fillets  were  roughened  by 
the  wind,  her  face  was  faintly  red  from  stooping  over 
the  fire,  and  her  bright  eyes  were  entirely  friendly  and 
entirely  unembarrassed.  Her  husband  was  speechless. 

"I'd  have  unpacked  for  you  if  I'd  had  your  keys,"  she 
continued.  "In  the  middle  classes  the  women  always 
unpack  for  the  men.  Well  now,  I  must  get  back  to  my 
stove.  Don't  you  think  you'll  be  more  comfortable  if 
you  change  out  of  that  noble  thing  in  suits?" 

"I  think  I  will,  thanks,"  said  Mark.  He  stood  very 
still,  leaning  his  hand  on  the  window-sill,  and  one  who 
knew  him  well  might  have  noticed  that  his  voice  had 
gone  flat.  Under  the  drilled  manner  he  was  disabled  by 
such  a  fit  of  shyness  as  had  not  seized  on  him  since  he 
was  twenty.  He  concealed  it;  but  he  could  not  have 
done  even  that  if  he  had  said  any  more. 

"Right.     Don't  be  long,"  said  Maisie. 


80  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

She  went  out,  shutting  the  door  behind  her,  and  Mark 
recovered  himself  and  straightened  his  bent  shoulders. 
In  the  reaction  he  was  hot  with  anger;  it  chafed  his  man- 
hood that  it  should  have  been  he  and  not  Maisie  who 
was  shy,  and  the  more  so  because  he  could  not  believe 
that  Maisie  had  not  read  him  like  a  book.  He  had  always 
regarded  Lawrence  Sturt's  gallantries  with  a  mixture  of 
amusement  and  dislike,  but  he  did  find  himself,  for  one 
moment,  envying  the  dash  with  which  that  practiced 
swordsman  would  have  beaten  down  Maisie's  guard. 
Lawrence  would  not  have  let  her  go  without  a  kiss.  .  .  . 
Mark  had  reached  this  stage  in  his  reflections  when 
Maisie  knocked  at  the*  door  again.  "It  really  is  chilly 
to  -night.  Wouldn't  you  like*  some"  hot  water  ?" 

"Have  you  any  handy?" 

"Lots !"  Maisie  sang  out. 

"Thanks  most  awfully.  I'll  come  and  get  it  in  a  min- 
ute." 

There  was  no  reply,  but  shortly  after  the  door  was 
opened  and  a  white  arm  came  round  it  with  a  kettle. 
Mark  splashed  some  water  into  his  basin — "Don't  take 
too  much,"  said  Maisie,  "I  want  about  half" — and  re- 
turned the  kettle  to  the  hand;  after  which  he  was  left 
to  complete  his  toilet  without  further  interruption  and 
in  a  more  sober  frame  of  mind. 

When  Mark  came  out,  dressed  in  an  old  suit  of  flan- 
nels, the  kitchen  had  undergone  a  change.  A  white  cloth 
was  thrown  over  the  table,  and  the  oak  chairs  were 
drawn  up  to  it.  Silver  and  glass  were  set  out,  and  in  a 
branched  silver  candlestick  candles  were  lighted,  which 
flickered  in  the  draught  from  the  window  and  threw  giant 
and  distorted  shadows  on  the  walls.  Maisie  raised  a 
flushed  face  from  the  fire.  "The  plates  are  hotting  on 
the  rack  here,"  she  said.  "Do  you  mind  putting  them  on 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  81 

the  table  while  I  dish  up?  I  do  hope  you  can  resign 
yourself  to  having  only  ham  and  eggs  for  to-night,  we'll 
do  ourselves  better  to-morrow,  but  I  haven't  had  time 
to  unpack  the  Stores  hamper  yet." 

"Couldn't  have  anything  better.    Oh!  sac  a  papier!" 

"What's  the  matter — did  you  burn  your  fingers  ?  Dear 
boy,  I  knew  you  would.  Never  mind,  tell  me  if  you  like 
fried  bread  and  how  many  eggs  you  can  eat.  I've  done 
four  for  you  and  two  for  me,  but  I  can  put  some  more 
on  while  we're  eating  these." 

"Oh,  we'll  eat  these  first,  anyhow.  Is  that  beer  on 
the  window-sill?" 

"Yes:  there  is  some  claret  in  the  locker,  but  I  know 
you  always  drink  beer  when  you  can  get  it  and  I  rather 
like  it  myself.  It  goes  with  the  furniture,  don't  you, 
think?" 

"It  goes  very  fast,"  remarked  her  husband,  raising 
his  face  from  an  empty  tankard.  "Sea  air  makes  people 
thirsty.  Maisie,  you  are  a  genius !  When  did  you  learn 
to  cook?" 

"When  I  was  a  girl.    Yes,  mustard,  please." 

"Brown  bread  or  white?" 

"Brown — let's  each  have  half  the  crust." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence. 

"Aren't  we  pigs?"  said  Maisie.  "It's  like  a  German 
table  d'hote.  You  know  the  awful  hush  that  falls  when 
they  bring  in  a  fresh  course." 

"I've  never  been  to  Germany." 

"Never — been — to  Germany !" 

"Not  I.  Had  enough  of  them  in  France.  Surely  you 
knew  I  was  through  the  war,  didn't  you  ?"  Maisie  shook 
her  head ;  she  knew  nothing  whatever  about  Mark  Sturt's 
early  career,  and  had  never  heard  of  him  except  as  a 
business  man  and  politician,  though  when  the  idea  was 
once  offered  to  her  she  could  only  say  "of  course,"  and 


82  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

wonder  that  she  had  not  recognized  before  the  military 
stamp  on  his  broad  shoulders.  Mark  was  smiling  as  if 
at  some  private  joke,  but  there  was  a  flush  on  his  cheek. 
"Really?  Well,  how  should  you  know  it  after  all!  I 
never  got  my  captaincy.  No,  I  didn't  volunteer;  I  was 
in  the  army  before  war  broke  out.  I  was  only  a  lines- 
man— 1st  Derbyshires." 

"Did  you  see  much  fighting?" 

"Had  my  whack.  Not  so  much  as  Lawrence ;  he  was 
out  from  start  to  finish  and  never  got  a  scratch,  which 
is  a  bit  of  a  record,  considering  that  he  was  in  some  of 
the  hottest  corners.  Incidentally  I  may  add  that  he 
saved  my  life  at  the  very  imminent  risk  of  his  own. 
Lawrence  shines,  you  know,  when  he  gets  out  of  civilized 
life ;  he  enjoyed  the  show,  I  believe,  which  is  more  than 
I  can  say." 

"Why  did  you  go  into  a  line  regiment  when  your 
brother  was  in  the  Guards?" 

"Possibly  because  I  wasn't  keen  on  being  a  gay  Guards- 
man." 

"Don't  snub  me,  Mark,  please.  You  might  have  liked 
the  gunners  or  the  cavalry." 

"Too  heavy  for  the  cavalry."  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "Really  I  don't  know.  I  think  my  father  settled 
it  for  us,  but  I  don't  remember  raising  any  objection. 
Why  should  I  ?  The  opulent  and  ornamental  were  never 
in  my  line.  It  was  a  good  regiment,  too.  Yarrow  was 
our  colonel,  the  men  worshiped  him;  he  was  killed  at 
Loos."  Mark  checked  himself  with  a  sigh. — "Anyhow 
it  made  no  great  odds,  for  I  was  invalided  out  of  the 
Service  at  three  and  twenty,  so  that  was  an  end  of  that." 
An  end  of  the  subject  too,  Maisie  thought,  judging  by 
his  tone,  and  she  was  too  cautious  to  press  her  point, 
though  she  longed  to  speak  her  mind  on  Lawrence  Sturt's 
charmingly  mannered  selfishness.  She  knew,  even  she, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  S'6 

that  a  man's  old  regiment  is  one  of  the  topics  that  are 
ruled  out  of  criticism.  One  other  question  she  risked. 
"Oh!  yes,  I  got  a  nasty  cut  over  the  hip,"  Mark  an- 
swered impatiently.  "Are  there  any  more  eggs  going? 
Don't  get  up,  please — I'll  bet  I've  fried  more  eggs  than 
you  have.  Very  good  they  are,  too.  Did  you  get  them 
at  the  farm?" 

"No,  I  fetched  them  with  me  from  Ushant,  and  the 
milk  and  the  bread  as  well.  I  knew  I  shouldn't  get  over 
to  the  farm  to-night,  it's  every  step  of  two  miles." 

"Something  of  a  walk  for  Miss  Archdale — I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mrs.  Mark  Sturt.  I  was  wondering  as  I  came 
up  the  lane  how  you  would  get  on  in  your  pretty  little 
slippers."  Maisie  replied  by  sticking  out  her  foot,  shod 
in  a  thick  square-toed  boot.  "Come,  that's  better!"  said 
Mark.  "I  hate  those  silly  shoes  women  generally  wear. 
Why  do  you  wear  them?  Senseless  little  things." 

"To  match  the  women,"  said  Maisie. 

The  caustic  contempt  of  her  tone  made  Mark  raise  his 
eyebrows.  "Have  some  more  beer  and  think  better  of 
it." 

"I  will  have  half  a  glass  more  beer — I  hope  it  won't 
make  me  drunk — but  I  won't  think  better  of  it.  We 
can't  help  it :  we  were  educated  to  be  senseless.  Were 
you  ever  drunk,  Mark?" 

"Often,"  said  Mark  cheerfully. 

"Rubbish!     Tell  me — I  want  to  know." 

"Are  you  reflecting  that  you're  alone  in  the  house  with 
me  ?"  Mark  asked.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  laughing 
at  her.  "Ha,  ha !  what  a  hopeless  kid  you  are  at  times, 
Maisie!  I  have  been  drunk  once  or  twice  in  my  life, 
but  I'm  not  an  habitual  drunkard,  dear.  Would  you 
like  a  list?  Once  when  I  was  at  Sandhurst,  after  a  boat- 
race  night — a  very  mild  affair,  terminating  in  a  gentle 
reprimand ;  once  when  I  was  in  the  army,  on  an  occasion 


84  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

which  I  won't  specify,  when  the  drinks  were  mixed  and 
we  were  all  rather  glorious ;  and  once  I  believe  in  China, 
but  there  was  opium  in  that  and  I  don't  remember  much 
about  it,  bar  the  headache  I  had  afterwards.  I'm  afraid 
that's  the  limit."  He  leaned  across  the  table  and  cap- 
tured the  hand  that  wore  his  rings.  "Did  you  flatter 
yourself  that  I'd  been  a  devil  of  a  fellow?  Ha,  ha!  what 
a  disappointment,  isn't  it?"  His  shyness  had  left  him, 
and  in  its  place  there  came  again  the  strange  heavy  beat 
of  excitement  along  his  pulses.  "Your  turn  now  to  con- 
fess. Why  do  you  sneer  at  women?  I  hate  to  hear  a 
woman  do  that.  Women  ought  to  stick  together  as  men 
do.  Esprit  de  corps,  what?" 

"Oh!  Mark!  Not  with  my  rings  on,  please — you 
hurt." 

"So  sorry.  But  why  do  you  say  you  were  edu- 
cated to  be  senseless?  You  seem  to  me  distinctly 
competent." 

"Ah!  but  I  wasn't  brought  up  in  my  present  atmos- 
phere," Maisie  retorted.  "I  had  plenty  of  sense  ham- 
mered into  me  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"When  you  were  a  girl?"  Mark  repeated,  amused. 
"Where  did  you  live  in  those  dim  and  distant  days  when 
you  were  a  girl?" 

"In  the  country.  Well  take  it  in  turns  to  clear  the 
plates  away,  shall  we?  If  you  get  up,  too,  we  shall  only 
fall  over  each  other.  To  expedite  matters  I'll  put  them 
straight  into  the  sink.  I'm  afraid  there's  not  much  for 
a  second  course — only  bread  and  cheese  and  fruit  and 
cream." 

Mark  registered  a  vow  to  get  the  tale  of  her  early  life 
out  of  her  by  and  by,  but  it  would  evidently  take  a  good 
deal  of  getting,  and  the  present  was  not  a  fitting  oppor- 
tunity. They  finished  their  supper,  while  out  of  doors 
the  splendor  faded  into  twilight,  the  mist  and  chill  of 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  85 

night  settled  over  the  sea,  and  the  ceaseless  dash  of 
waves  sounded  ever  louder  and  louder  in  the  withdrawal 
of  those  small  unnoticeable  noises  which  are  woven  into 
the  fabric  of  the  serenest  daylight  quiet.  When  neither 
of  them  could  eat  any  more,  Maisie  turned  Mark  out  of 
doors  while  she  washed  up  and  set  the  kitchen  tidy.  His 
offers  of  help  were  refused.  "Not  to-night :  I  can  do  it 
quicker  by  myself  till  we  get  used  to  finding  our  way 
about,  thanks  all  the  same — I'd  really  rather  you  went 
and  had  a  smoke."  Mark  suspected  that  it  was  done 
chiefly  in  order  not  to  throw  too  great  a  strain  upon  his 
patience,  whose  durability — tried  by  many  vicissitudes 
of  camp  life — was  not  yet  understood  by  his  companion; 
but  he  gave  way,  and  walked  up  and  down  outside  on 
the  patch  of  level  sward  between  the  sea  glen  and  the 
downs,  watching  the  light  from  St.  Catherine's  light- 
house wink  and  wheel  in  taper  beams  across  the  gray 
floor  of  the  Channel.  How  still  it  was,  and  how  fresh! 
There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  but  the  recurrent 
murmur  of  a  wave  against  the  cliffs  and  its  long  surge 
and  suck  over  the  hidden  beach  below. 

In  the  open  kitchen  doorway  Maisie  appeared,  sil- 
houetted black  against  fire  and  candle  light,  carrying  in 
either  hand  a  cup  of  coffee.  "No  milk,  no  sugar,"  she 
said,  giving  him  his  portion.  "Pure  Turkish,  no  chicory. 
Is  that  right  ?" 

"Pure  chickish,  no  turcory.     Exceedingly  right." 

"You  have  a  baby  sense  of  humor,  Mark,"  said  Maisie. 
"Just  like  a  man.  Ouf !  I'm  almost  tired." 

She  sat  down  on  a  hummock  of  grass  and  thoughtfully 
stirred  her  coffee.  She  had  taken  off  her  apron  and 
smoothed  her  hair,  which  shone  like  gold  in  the  twilight, 
and  the  schoolgirl  neatness  of  the  blue  serge  rose  and 
fell  with  her  even  breathing.  Mark  stood  a  little  behind 
her  watching  that  soft  rise  and  fall.  So  Renee  had 


86  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

looked  as  she  sat  in  her  father's  garden  and  listened  to 
the  young  English  officer's  lame  attempts  at  French,  the 
shuttles  flying  under  her  downcast  eyes ;  but  Maisie  Sturt 
was  no  Renee,  and  with  some  years  of  London  in  her 
memory,  and  Mark  a  captive  at  her  side,  what  title  had 
she  to  wear  Renee's  aspect  of  untouched  maiden  calm? 
Passion  flamed  again  in  Mark,  the  response  of  his  senses 
to  the  goad  of  his  vanity ;  if  she  had  thrown  herself  into 
young  Forester's  timid  hands  she  could  not  have  ap- 
peared more  secure.  Youth  has  a  right  to  a  man's  infinite 
gentleness,  and  womanhood  to  respect,  but  experience 
masking  as  innocence  has  forfeited  either  claim.  .  .  . 
Or  was  it,  after  all,  Maya,  illusion  ?  A  dream,  prolonged 
and  vivid,  but  rushing  on  to  its  inevitable  end? 

The  wind,  what  there  was  of  it,  was  setting  towards 
the  sea.  A  faint  breath  went  by  them  like  a  sigh  over 
the  thin  grass  of  the  downs  and  through  the  sea-dwarfed 
oak-trees.  It  carried  with  it,  plaintive  and  remote,  the 
chiming  of  the  tower  clock  in  Ushant  far  away. 

"It's  striking  eleven,"  said  Maisie.  "I  shall  set  my 
watch,  because  Ushant  church  is  five  minutes  faster 
than  London  time.  When  in  Ushant,  do  as  Ushant  does. 
I  can't  afford  to  get  up  late  to-morrow." 

She  gave  her  little  unembarrassed  laugh.  "Let  me 
take  your  cup,"  said  Mark,  conscious  as  he  said  it  that 
the  common  courtesy  sounded  quaintly  formal  in  that 
natural  setting.  But  Maisie  gave  him  her  cup  smilingly, 
and  Mark  took  them  both  indoors  and  washed  them  un- 
der the  tap.  "Where  do  you  keep  the  cloths  ?"  he  asked 
through  the  kitchen  window.  "You'll  find  one  on  the 
clothes  prop,  drying,"  Maisie  answered.  Mark  wiped 
the  little  cups,  set  them  on  the  dresser,  and  came  out 
again.  Maisie  was  on  her  feet,  shielding  her  eyes  with 
her  hand,  gazing  out  far-sighted  over  the  gray  tides  of 
the  Channel.  Mark  came  softly  up  behind  her,  put  his 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  87 

arm  round  her  waist,  and  bent  his  head  so  that  his  lips 
touched  her  ear. 

"Past  eleven  o'clock,  Maisie,  and  you've  had  a  long 
day.  You'll  never  be  up  in  time  to-morrow  if  you  don't 
go  to  bed  soon." 

"I  should  so  awfully  like  to  run  down  and  have  a 
dip  in  the  sea." 

"Now?     It's  too  cold;  you  would  get  a  chill." 

"Not  I,  I  never  get  chills.     I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse." 

"Well,  it's  too  late,"  said  Mark  peremptorily.  "Wait 
till  the  morning." 

"I  am  rather  tired,"  Maisie  confessed. 

She  went  indoors,  leaving  the  door  open,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  he  saw  the  light  of  a  lamp  spring  out  in  her 
room.  Mark  glanced  at  his  watch.  Ten  minutes  past 
eleven.  Maisie  appeared  at  the  window  and  drew  the 
blind  down.  But  it  was  a  thin  blind,  and  the  discovery 
that  he  could  still  see  her,  defined  in  shadow  against  the 
lighted  canvas,*  her  arms  lifted  to  take  the  pins  out  of 
her  hair,  drove  Mark  Sturt  away  from  that  vicinity. 
He  lit  a  cigarette  and  strolled  slowly  down  the  glen, 
thinking  of  nothing,  noticing  nothing  except  the  stony 
roughness  of  the  track  underfoot.  The  sea  was  hidden 
now,  the  trees  rose  up  between  it  and  him ;  only  the  voice 
of  its  deep  breathing  still  encompassed  him  like  a  bene- 
diction or  a  serenade,  and  the  wheeling  stare  of  the  light- 
house flashed  periodically  behind  the  leafy  gloom.  He 
followed  the  track  till  he  came  out  upon  the  silvered 
and  deserted  beach,  and  saw  dark  waters  lapping  at  his 
feet,  a  bath  of  stars.  They  invited  him  with  their  crys- 
tal freshness,  and  lazily  he  threw  off  his  clothes  and 
plunged  in.  Cold  it  was,  cold  and  shallow,  soon  deep- 
ening towards  the  entry  of  the  cove ;  a  few  strokes  car- 
ried him  out  of  his  depth.  He  turned  over  on  his  back 
and  floated,  lying  between  shadow  and  shadow.  Bright 


88  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

over  the  Channel  glittered  Altair  and  Sagittarius,  and 
Cassiopeia  sphered  up  in  her  diamond  chair,  and  Alde- 
baran  far  in  the  west ;  further  inland  the  Northern  wag- 
oner hung  inverted  over  the  downs,  while  the  cove  caught 
the  sparkle  of  the  Tyrian  mariner's  guide — 

the  stedfast  starre 

That  was  in  Ocean  waves  yet  never  wet, 
But  firm  is  fixt,  and  sendeth  light   from  farre 
To  all  that  in  the  wide  deep  wandering  arre. 

Mark  splashed  about  lazily;  a  powerful  swimmer  and 
indifferent  to  temperature,  he  loved  to  feel  the  light  slap 
and  curl  of  the  water  over  his  chest,  and  to-night  more 
than  any  other  night  every  nerve  in  his  body  seemed  to 
sparkle  with  the  pleasure  of  energy.  He  lost  all  definite 
thought  as  he  breasted  the  water's  yielding  caress.  At 
last  an  insane  fear  fastened  on  him  that  he  had  been 
away  too  long,  and  he  swam  ashore  and  huddled  on  his 
clothes  again,  wet  as  he  was,  and  took  the  precipitous 
footpath  at  a  run.  But  when  he  regained  the  cliff-top 
the  light  was  still  burning  in  Maisie's  room.  Mark 
looked  at  his  watch.  Twenty  minutes  to  twelve.  He 
moved  towards  the  open  door. 

And  all  at  once  he  knew  that  he  could  not  enter  it. 

There  was  no  struggle  in  his  mind,  the  decision  seemed 
to  have  been  made  for  him;  he  turned  sharp  round  and 
walked  away,  not  towards  the  glen,  but  inland,  towards 
the  downs.  He  took  out  his  cigarette  case  and  lit  an- 
other cigarette,  not  because  he  wanted  to  smoke,  but  as 
a  man  dazed  after  an  accident  will  perform  some  small 
action  to  test  his  own  faintness ;  for  the  world  had  again 
grown  fearfully  unreal.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  fore- 
head and  found  that  it  was  streaming  with  perspiration. 
He  walked  on  till  he  came  to  the  bend  in  the  track,  but 
there  he  turned  back,  remembering  that  he  could  not 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  89 

leave  Maisie  by  herself  and  out  of  earshot  in  that  solitary 
spot.  He  felt  as  tired  as  though  he  had  just  undergone 
a  severe  operation,  but  there  was  still  no  struggle,  no 
rebellion;  the  fiat  had  gone  forth  from  laws  deeper  than 
the  passions  of  his  own  being,  and  he  obeyed  it. 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  by  the  wayside. 
Some  time  passed :  how  long  he  did  not  know.  Presently 
the  light  behind  the  blind  moved  and  the  blind  itself  was 
lifted.  Maisie  looked  out.  She  could  not  see  him,  and 
she  stood  for  some  minutes  at  the  window,  waiting.  At 
last  she  called  him  softly  by  name.  "Mark." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"Mark" — she  raised  her  voice — "are  you  there?" 

"I'm  here,  dear,"  said  Mark,  standing  up. 

"Oh,  there  you  are !" 

By  the  relief  in  her  voice  he  understood  that  she  had 
been  frightened. 

"I'm — ready  now." 

"I'm  not  coming." 

"You—?" 

"I'm  not  coming." 

"Not  coming  at  all?" 

"No.  I  shall  sleep  out  here.  Go  to  bed,  dear.  Don't 
worry  about  me." 

She  stood  for  a  long  time  silent,  holding  up  the  blind. 

"Is  it- — Don't  you  want  to  come  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mark,  stamping  his  foot.  "Go  and  lie 
down.  Drop  the  blind  and  go  away  from  the  window." 

"But,  Mark " 

"Drop  the  blind  and  go  away  from  the  window." 

She  let  fall  the  blind  and  he  saw  her  cross  the  room 
with  a  steady  step.  The  light  in  its  turn  was  extin- 
guished. Now  shadows  and  soft  starshine  enveloped 
everything  in  heaven  and  earth.  It  was  some  time  before 
Mark  dared  to  move  from  the  spot  where  she  had  left 


90  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

him,  but  at  last  he  went  with  a  swift  light  tread  to  the 
open  casement  of  the  kitchen,  caught  up  a  coat  that  he 
had  left  lying  on  the  locker,  and  passed  on  into  the 
fringe  of  the  wood.  There  he  made  himself  a  hole  for 
his  hip  after  the  fashion  of  an  old  campaigner,  doubled 
up  the  coat  under  his  head,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  under 
the  shelter  of  the  trees  and  the  stars.  But  no  sleep  came. 
With  the  first  accent  of  his  wife's  voice,  immunity  was 
over,  and  fatigue.  He  looked  up  at  the  stars,  the  sign 
manual  of  God,  but  he  could  not  pray;  and  then  he 
thought  of  his  friend,  who  preached  the  beauty  of  purity 
and  the  transience  of  human  pleasure  and  pain,  and  he 
wondered  whether  Father  de  Traffbrd  had  ever  stretched 
his  own  limbs  on  that  rack.  Pleasure  may  cheat  our 
wish,  but  in  pain  there  is  no  illusion.  His  will  held  firm, 
however.  Mark  Sturt's  wedding  night  was  passed  under 
the  stars. 


CHAPTER  VI 

UT\  TARK."     Mr.   Sturt,  who  was  stretched  at  full 

IV-L  length  on  the  turf  before  the  cottage  with  his 
pipe  and  a  book,  looked  up  lazily.  "I  have  to  go  over  to 
the  farm  for  some  more  eggs.  Will  you  stay  where  you 
are  and  look  after  the  house,  or  come  too?" 

"I  wonder  if  I've  finished  digesting  my  breakfast," 
said  Mark.  "I  ate  a  good  deal."  He  rolled  over  on  his 
back  and  cocked  one  knee  over  the  other. 

"Make  up  your  mind,"  Maisie  admonished  him,  "be- 
cause if  you  don't  I  needn't  lock  up  the  house." 

"Oh,  I  expect  I'd  better  come,"  said  Mark,  getting 
to  his  feet.  "Let  me  just  shy  this  book  in  at  the  window. 
Is  that  the  kit  you're  going  in?  Pity  it's  thrown  away 
on  old  Biddle.  He  doesn't  know  a  good  thing  when  he 
sees  it." 

Mark  was  in  flannels — the  same  flannels  that  he  had 
worn  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  but  dirtier  by  a  week's 
hard  wear;  and  Maisie  was  in  a  harebell-colored  cotton 
frock,  bare-armed  and  bare-throated.  The  skin  that  had 
been  white  a  week  ago  was  now  a  warm  pale  brown, 
and  in  place  of  her  Greek  waves  she  wore  her  hair  down 
in  two  thick  plaits  which  swung  below  her  waist.  She 
looked  younger  than  ever,  and  had  a  boy's  indifference 
to  the  sun.  "You'll  get  sunstroke  if  you  go  out  like 
that  without  a  hat,"  said  Mark.  He  said  it  every  day. 

"I'll  take  my  new  sunshade,"  replied  the  biddable 
Maisie,  catching  up  a  flowered  cotton  parasol  which  she 
had  bought  in  Ushant  for  two  and  elevenpence,  three 

91 


92  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

farthings.  Mark  had  not  yet  got  over  the  surprise  of 
finding  that  she  generally  did  as  she  was  told  to  do. 
"Here's  the  latchkey,  don't  drop  it."  Mark  put  it  in  his 
pocket;  it  was  one  of  the  incorrigibly  feminine  idiosyn- 
crasies which  fascinated  him  in  his  wife,  that  in  spite  of 
her  thick  boots  and  indifference  to  wind  and  weather  she 
never  had  a  pocket  in  any  of  her  dresses.  She  carried 
her  handkerchiefs  up  her  sleeve  or  in  her  belt,  and  when 
she  dropped  them  she  borrowed  Mark's. 

They  swung  off  over  the  downs  in  step  together,  Mark 
shortening  his  stride  to  keep  pace  with  Maisie's  long 
level  tread ;  comrades  thoroughly  at  ease  with  each  other, 
in  spite  of  the  precarious  delicacy  of  their  relations.  Per- 
haps it  was  strange  that  it  should  have  been  so,  and  cer- 
tainly a  small  defect  of  sensibility  on  either  side  would 
have  made  the  position  intolerable;  but  Sturt  and  his 
wife  came  of  a  stock  that  has,  among  many  less  useful 
qualities,  the  knack  of  taking  things  for  granted.  There 
had  been  ten  difficult  minutes  the  first  morning,  but  when 
each  realized  that  the  other  had  accepted  the  situation, 
and  that  there  would  be  neither  discussion  nor  reproach, 
the  gap  was  soon  bridged,  and  in  the  small  familiarities 
forced  on  them  by  life  at  the  cottage  they  were  soon  able 
to  ignore  the  fact  that  there  had  ever  been  a  gap  at  all. 

"Our  last  day,"  said  Maisie,  as  they  breasted  the  downs 
to  the  south-east.  "What  shall  we  do  this  afternoon — 
take  the  car  out,  or  go  for  a  row?"  Mark  had  discov- 
ered in  the  village  a  dilapidated  car  for  hire,  and  after  a 
hot  and  happy  morning  spent  chiefly  on  his  back  in  a 
farrier's  yard  he  had  managed,  as  he  said,  to  "whack  her 
up"  to  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  at  which  breakneck  pace  he 
and  Maisie  had  taken  turns  to  drive  her  through  stony 
lanes,  across  the  downs,  and  even  over  the  beach.  "We 
might  dine  somewhere  at  an  inn  and  save  washing  up." 

"  'Shouldn't  wonder  if  we  had  a  storm,"  said  Mark, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  93 

scanning  the  weather.     "Hallo!  things  look  a  bit  queer 
ahead.    What's  all  the  smoke?" 

It  was  one  of  those  sultry  days  when  the  country 
seems  to  be  worn  out  with  the  burden  of  holding  up  the 
fleecy  stillness  of  the  clouds.  An  overcast  night  had 
prevented  any  dew  from  falling,  and  the  sky  was  still 
packed  with  faint  shapes,  which  never  seemed  to  move, 
and  which  dissolved  into  a  mere  smudge  of  vapor  over 
the  bronze  sixpence  of  the  sun.  There  was  no  wind. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  gray-blue  floor  of  the  Chan- 
nel stretched  without  a  speck  of  foam,  till  it  shaded  off 
through  infinite  gradations  of  silvery  shade  into  the 
silver  dazzle,  of  the  horizon.  A  tramp  steamer  plowing 
along  left  behind  her  a  wake  that  lay  for  miles  like  a 
stain,  while  overhead  the  smoke  of  her  single  funnel 
rolled  itself  out  from  a  pennon  to  a  string  of  beads,  and 
those  again  into  mere  puffs  and  curls  of  whiteness,  which 
dispersed  themselves  imperceptibly  into  the  surrounding 
haze. 

But  Mark  was  not  looking  at  the  sea.  As  they  came 
over  the  rise,  they  saw  before  them  a  patch  of  downland, 
covered  with  a  low  scrub  of  heather  and  gorse-bushes, 
which  was  burning  furiously.  Some  tramp  had  thrown 
away  a  lighted  match,  or  some  spark  had  flown  from  a 
traction-engine  along  the  road,  and  the  grass  and  shrubs, 
parched  by  a  long  drought — for  no  rain  had  fallen  since 
Mark's  coming  to  Ushant — had  caught  like  tinder.  Be- 
fore the  line  of  fire,  smoke  rolled  in  low  clouds ;  it  had 
gone  over  their  heads  while  they  were  in  the  glen,  but 
now  the  smell  of  it  was  bitter  in  their  nostrils.  Mark 
halted,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  looked  round  him  with 
a  practiced  eye. 

"No  harm  done.  Eastwards  they've  beaten  it  out  al- 
ready ;  north  you  get  the  high  road,  southward  the  cliffs, 
and  in  our  own  direction  it  will  stop  at  the  dyke.  Pity 


94  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

to  leave  that  black  scar  on  the  downs,  but  at  least  it 
won't  touch  crops  or  farm  buildings.  Ever  seen  a  heath 
fire  before  ?  Come  along  over  the  dyke,  it's  worth  watch- 
ing; not  quite  like  a  forest  fire  I  once  saw  in  Canada, 
though." 

The  dyke,  a  tolerably  broad  ditch  of  ill-defined  Ro- 
man antecedents,  now  used  as  a  watering-place  for  sheep, 
was  spanned  only  by  a  couple  of  planks,  and  Mark  turned 
to  give  his  hand  to  his  companion.  "My  dear  girl, 
what's  the  matter?"  he  said  hastily.  "There's  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of !" 

"I'm  not  afraid.  Go  on :  I  don't  want  a  hand,  thanks." 
Mark  opened  his  eyes,  but  said  no  more,  and  Jed  the  way 
across  the  footbridge,  his  wife  following.  "Yes,  we'll 
wait  and  watch  it,"  said  Maisie.  She  sat  down  on  a 
cushion  of  heather  and  Mark  threw  himself  on  the  turf 
at  her  feet;  he  had  to  choose  his  couch  warily,  for  the 
gorse  grew  thick  all  about  them.  Maisie  pulled  a  long 
feathery  shaft  of  grass,  and  drew  it  lightly,  like  a  proxy 
caress,  across  his  upturned  face. 

"You  are  sunburnt,  Mark :  tanned  like  a  gypsy.  Your 
neck  was  white  under  your  collar  when  you  came,  but 
it's  as  brown  now  as  a  coffee  berry.  I  should  have 
thought  China  and  the  Andes  and  all  the  other  places 
would  have  tanned  you  from  head  to  foot,  but  I  suppose 
it  wears  off  after  a  few  weeks  of  civilization.  You  are 
thin,  too — thinner  than  you  were  when  you  came,  I  be- 
lieve." 

He  put  up  his  hand  and  drew  hers  down  and  took 
the  grass-blade  away.  "I  don't  like  being  tickled,  thanks. 
Maisie,  why  are  you  afraid  of  fire?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  fire,"  Maisie  averred,  gazing  with 
steady  eyes  at  the  distant  surge  of  smoke.  "What's  the 
time?  We  mustn't  leave  the  eggs  too  late,  because  of 
getting  home  to  see  to  lunch." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  95 

"Tell  me,  Maisie." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell.  I  thought  you  knew.  Oh,  I 
think  I'd  like  to  tell  you  if  you  really  care  to  hear,  but 
do  you?  Long  tales  about  other  people's  pasts  are  so 
very,  very  dull." 

"Still  you  might  take  the  chance  of  boring  your  hus- 
band." 

"Ah!  if  you  were." 

Mark's  hand  closed  over  hers  with  a  force  of  which  he 
was  unconscious.  "Don't,  dear— don't.  You  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about." 

"And  do  you  ?"  said  Maisie  sadly. 

"Tell  me  about  the  fire,"  Mark  answered  after  a  mo- 
ment. He  could  not,  in  fact,  explain  himself  to  Maisie, 
because  he  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  explaining  himself 
to  himself.  "Were  you  ever  in  one?" 

"Yes.  Did  you  really  never  hear  that  ?  How  little  we 
know  about  each  other,  even  now !"  She  named  a  famous 
ocean  tragedy.  "We  were  all  in  it.  I  lost  every 
one." 

"You  lost—?" 

"My  father  and  mother,  two  brothers  older  than  my- 
self, and  a  young  sister.  We  were  all  on  our  way  home 
from  the  Cape.  She  had  a  dangerous  cargo,  and  they 
could  not  get  the  blaze  under.  You  remember,  don't  you  ? 
It  was  only  ten  years  ago.  I  was  a  girl  of  thirteen.  There 
was  no  panic,  and  all  the  passengers  were  got  into  the 
boats,  but  there  was  a  heavy  gale  blowing,  and  one  boat 
was  swamped  as  they  lowered  it.  My  mother  and  Philip 
and  Jim  and  Lucy  were  in  that  one,  and  my  father  and 
I  were  going  in  the  next.  They  were  drowned  before 
our  eyes." 

Mark  took  her  hand  again  and  held  it. 

"Hardly  any  one  was  lost  except  that  boatfull,"  Maisie 
went  on.  "The  rest  of  us  were  picked  up  in  the  course 


96  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

of  the  day,  but  my  father  died  before  we  got  to  England. 
He  was  a  delicate  man  and  he  couldn't  stand  the  shock. 
They  put  it  down  to  the  exposure  and  the  wetting — he 
jumped  in  after  my  mother  and  was  all  but  drowned 
himfelf — but  he  could  have  pulled  through  if  he  had 
cared  to  live.  He  worshiped  my  mother.  I  couldn't 
do  anything  to  help  him,  and  I  was  glad  for  his  sake 
when  he  died.  He  had  nerves,  my  father.  Every  one 
was  very  good  to  me,  particularly  the  people  off  the 
Redruth  Castle,  but  I  couldn't  answer  them  at  all.  I 
remember  Lady  Dene — Viola  Dene,  the  Governor's  wife 
— taking  me  in  her  arms  and  telling  me  not  to  ride  my- 
self on  the  curb,  but  of  course  I  couldn't  tell  her  any- 
thing. I  never  have  really  told  any  one  before." 

"Clever  woman,  Viola  Dene.     Go  on,  dear." 

"Philip  was  my  special  pal,"  said  Maisie.  Her  eyelids 
fell,  and  her  teeth  fastened  for  a  moment  on  her  lower 
lip. 

"Your  young  brother?" 

"He  was  seventeen;  four  years  older  than  I  was.  He 
was  coming  home  to  go  into  the  army.  He  was  an  ugly 
boy  with  beautiful  eyes  like  my  mother's,  and  he  was 
always  in  hot  water.  He  taught  me  to  ride  and  swim 
and  row;  he  could  ride  anything  on  four  legs  himself. 
Jim  was  unimaginative,  and  Lucy  was  only  a  plaything, 
but  Philip  and  I  were  always  about  together.  He  said 
I  had  more  sense  than  Jim,  and  he  treated  me  'exactly 
like  another  boy — he  used  to  cuff  my  head  if  I  didn't 
do  things  properly.  I  loved  Philip.  I  love  him  still, 
and  I  still  want  him.  Oh !  my  dear,  dear  Philip." 

"Don't  cry,  dear,"  said  Mark.  He  sat  up  and  put  his 
arm  round  her. 

"I'm  not  crying,"  said  Maisie,  leaning  her  cheek  against 
his.  "Feel !  not  one  tear.  That's  because  Philip  invariably 
cuffed  me  when  I  cried.  He  said  if  I  cried  I  was  a  silly 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  97 

idiot  of  a  girl,  but  if  I  didn't  I  was  very  nearly  as  good 
as  a  boy.  I — I  think,  looking  back,  Philip  must  have 
been  awfully  fond  of  me,  but  one  didn't  analyze  it  at  the 
time.  I  did  so  wish  afterwards  that  I  had  made  him 
say  good-by  to  me  before  he  got  into  the  boat.  I  know 
exactly  what  he  would  have  done.  He  would  have  kissed 
me  perfunctorily  over  one  eyebrow  and  said,  'Good-by, 
old  girl,  I  wish  you  were  coming  too,'  which  would  have 
been  something  to  live  on  afterwards.  But  the  last  words 
he  actually  said  to  me  were,  'You  confounded  little 
messer,  you've  been  messing  about  with  my  gun  again 
with  your  wet  paws,'  and  I  defy  any  one  to  get  any  satis- 
faction out  of  that." 

"What  happened  when  you  reached  England?" 
"Death  and  damnation,"  said  Maisie.  She  shook  her- 
self free  of  Mark's  arm.  "I  died  on  board,  and  I  was 
damned  in  the  suburbs.  I  went  to  live  with  my  uncle 
John  and  his  wife  and  family  in  a  big  house  on  Chisle- 
hurst  Common.  My  father  had  never  saved  a  farthing, 
so  there  was  nothing  for  me  except  a  small  Civil  Service 
pension,  and  there  was  no  one  else  who  could  have  taken 
me  except  my  mother's  brother,  who  was  Irish,  and  ec- 
centric, and  a  bachelor,  and  flatly  refused  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  me.  The  John  Archdales  were  the  ob- 
vious people.  Uncle  John  was  not  of  the  same  type  as 
my  father,  and  he  hadn't  any  nerves.  He  had  married 
a  tub  merchant's  daughter,  and  they  had  six  children — 
George,  Muriel,  Hilda,  Rosie,  Tom,  and  Gladys.  We 
wore  camisoles  and  underskirts,  and  wiped  our  mouths 
on  serviettes,  and  sent  soiled  clothes  to  the  laundry,  and 
Uncle  John  asked  a  blessing.  I  went  to  school  with  my 
cousins.  Uncle  John  always  used  to  say  that  he  never 
made  any  difference  between  us,  and  he  didn't — I  had 
just  the  same  clothes  as  his  own  girls,  and  the  same 
'extras/  and  the  same  tips  and  treats.  They  were  all 


98  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

very  kind  to  me,  and  Aunt  Gladys  said  I  was  to  look  upon 
her  as  a  mother,  and  the  boys  and  girls  would  be  like 
brothers  and  sisters  to  me  now  I  hadn't  any  of  my  own. 
One  day  when  I  had  been  there  four  or  five  months  she 
came  into  my  bedroom — I  shared  it  with  Hilda — and 
said  she  wanted  me  to  have  some  new  frocks  because  she 
couldn't  bear  to  see  a  young  girl  like  me  all  in  black; 
and  while  I  was  being  turned  round  to  be  measured  she 
told  the  dressmaker  all  about  it.  She  kept  appealing  to 
me  for  details.  I  thought  of  what  Viola  Dene  said  about 
the  curb.  I  was  polite  and  diffuse.  .  .  .  But,  indeed, 
Mark,  it  is  not  healthy  for  any  girl  to  suffer  like  that." 

Mark  nodded. 

"Remember  that  when  you're  judging  me,"  said  Maisie 
softly,  "I'm  not  good;  I'm  not  half  as  good  as  you  are, 
Mark  of  mine.  But  if  some  day  you  come  to  know  why 
I  married  you,  and  find  it  hard  to  forgive  me,  don't 
leave  out  of  the  reckoning  those  five  years  at  Chislehurst. 
Thirteen  to  eighteen  is  an  impressionable  age." 

"How  did  you  escape?" 

"Easily  enough,  after  I  left  school.  I  said  I  wanted 
to  earn  my  own  living,  and  I  fancy  Uncle  John  wasn't 
altogether  sorry  to  get  me  out  of  the  way.  Tom  and 
George  were  a  good  deal  at  home  just  then." 

"Oh !"  said  Mark,  smiling. 

"Exactly,"  Maisie  returned  with  composure.  "So  I 
got  away  and  turned  in  to  work.  I  wanted  to  be  a  nurse, 
but  they  won't  take  you  as  probationer  till  you're  twenty- 
three,  so  I  took  a  post  as  mother's  help  and  nursery 
governess  (I  haven't  any  brains,  you  know).  But  I  only 
had  a  couple  of  years  of  it,  for  when  I  was  twenty  my 
mother's  brother  died  and  left  me  every  farthing  of  his 
money.  He  didn't  even  appoint  Uncle  John  trustee.  He 
detested  Uncle  John,  and  they  say  he  was  very  fond  of 
my  mother;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  his  ruling  motive 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  99 

was  to  play  a  last  posthumous  prank  in  the  character 
of  Cinderella's  fairy  godmother.  I'd  only  seen  him  once 
in  my  life,  when  he  turned  up  at  Chislehurst  in  an  im- 
mense Rolls-Royce,  and  insisted  on  carrying  me  off,  a 
pig-tailed  schoolgirl  in  a  sailor  hat,  to  lunch  at  the  Ritz. 
He  refused  to  get  out  of  the  car  or  wait  while  I  changed 
my  dress.  He  gave  me  champagne  and  ice-pudding  and 
a  £10  note,  and  told  me  I  was  an  unlicked  young  devil 
and  that  he  should  like  to  see  what  I  should  do  if  I  had 
a  free  hand." 

Mark  reserved  his  opinion  of  Mr.  FitzGerald.  "And 
what  did  Cinderella  do  when  the  glass  coach  came  for 
her?" 

"Went  to  the  ball,"  said  Maisie,  smiling.  "I  wrote 
straight  off  to  Lady  Dene,  recalling  the  old  South  African 
days  and  telling  her  what  had  happened.  Her  reply 
was  a  telephone  message  asking  me  to  come  and  see  her 
in  Berkeley  Square.  I  went  for  a  week-end  and  stayed 
for  the  rest  of  the  season,  and  after  that  my  life  is 
public  property.  I  go  to  see  the  John  Archdales  now 
and  then,  but  they  don't  like  me  very  much;  they  say 
I'm  worldly,  and  they  won't  let  the  girls  come  and  stay 
with  me  because  it  isn't  proper  for  a  young  lady  to  live 
alone  as  I  do.  They  are  just  what  they  always  were,  my 
money  hasn't  made  a  pin's  difference  to  them ;  I  respect 
them  for  that,  but  I  don't  think  about  them  unless  I'm 
obliged.  And  so  now  you  know  why  I  winced  when  I 
saw  the  fire."  She  unfastened  a  gold  chain  from  her 
neck  and  put  an  open  locket  into  Mark's  hand :  the  ivory 
miniature  of  a  spirited  boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  with 
curly  brown  hair  and  large,  speaking  eyes. 

"I  shouldn't  have  guessed  it,"  said  Sturt,  studying 
Philip's  features. 

"That  he  was  my  brother?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that.     You're  like  him;  you  have  his 


100  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

eyes.  I  should  never  have  guessed  that  you  had  led  a 
life  like  that."  He  laid  the  locket  on  her  knee. 

"No :  well,  I  didn't  propose  that  any  one  should  guess 
it,"  said  Maisie  carelessly.  "Oh,  Mark,  look  at  that  silly 
rabbit!"  White  scut  and  hunched  quarters,  a  little  doe 
loped  past  them  with  the  sneaking  gait  of  a  housewife 
bound  for  her  own  front  door  though  frightened  to  her 
toe-tips.  But  the  front  door,  alas,  was  behind  that  screen 
of  flickering  flame,  now  not  many  yards  away,  and 
the  little  rabbit,  after  a  prolonged  ^tare,  scampered  off 
again  with  bolting  eyes.  Maisie  sprang  up.  "I  don't 
like  that.  Poor  little  wretch!  Come  along  and  get  the 
eggs." 

Mark  dragged  himself  to  his  feet.  The  lassitude  of 
his  movement  attracted  Maisie's  attention,  and  she  turned 
her  bright,  veiled  eyes  on  him.  "You  look  fagged. 
Sleeping  out  of  doors  can't  be  very  restful." 

"Oh,  I  like  it.  I've  done  it  often  enough,  you  know, 
under  less  pleasant  conditions ;  rugs  and  cushions  are  a 
luxury.  But  I've  got  a  devil  of  a  head  to-day,"  Mark 
confessed,  "which  means  either  liver  or  thunder.  The 
latter,  I  fancy.  Whew !  Time  to  get  a  move  on,  what  ?" 
In  a  momentary  flicker  of  wind  the  smoke  reached  out 
a  long  arm  after  them,  and  Mark  fanned  it  away  from 
Maisie  with  his  straw  hat.  "The  fire  will  be  up  to  where 
we  were  sitting  in  ten  minutes'  time." 

Quickening  their  pace,  they  recrossed  the  dyke,  to 
make  their  way  down  to  the  farm  by  a  track  on  the 
other  side.  By  now  the  fire  had  licked  its  way  in  patches 
almost  to  the  water's  edge,  and  the  heat  was  becoming 
oppressive.  Mark  inobtrusively  shielded  his  companion 
as  much  as  he  could,  for  Maisie  was  still  very  pale, 
and  Lady  Dene's  pregnant  comment,  taken  together  with 
the  story  of  the  Redruth  Castle,  had  set  her  for  him  in 
a  new  light.  She  was  so  cool  and  hardy  that  he  had  al- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  101 

ways  supposed  her  to  be  emotionally  immature,  unversed 
in  sorrow  and  probably  incapable  of  any  strong  feeling, 
but  Philip's  sister  was  not  cold.  "Poor  wretched  little 
rabbit!"  said  Maisie  presently,  her  mind  reverting  to  its 
previous  train  of  thought.  "Mark,  do  Catholics  believe 
in  a  heaven  for  animals?" 

"It  isn't  an  article  of  faith,  but  some  of  the  Fathers 
upheld  it.  Why?" 

"Sometimes  I  wish  I  were  a  Catholic.  No,  I  don't. 
I  might  surrender  my  will,  but  I  could  never  surrender 
my  reason.  How  can  you  do  it  ?" 

"Do  what,  dear  ?" 

"Believe  what  you  don't  believe  because  the  priests 
tell  you  to.  It's  more  than  weak — it's  immoral."  Mark's 
eyes  danced.  "Ah,  you  laugh — you  think  you  can  get 
behind  whatever  I  say.  Yours  is  an  arrogant  creed." 

"Maybe,"  said  Mark.    "It's  an  old  one." 

"You  look  like  an  adept  listening  to  the  irresponsible 
prattle  of  a  neophyte." 

"There  goes  your  rabbit  across  the  road,  I  know  her 
by  the  white  patch  on  her  quarters.  I  wouldn't  worry 
about  her;  the  fire  will  have  burned  itself  out  in  an 
hour,  and  she'll  be  able  to  get  back  to  her  bunny-hole. 
Hallo !" 

"What,  then?" 

"Where's  your  locket?" 

Maisie  put  her  hand  up  to  her  throat.  "Gone;  I 
dropped  it  where  we  were  sitting.  I  know  I  did.  It 
was  on  my  knee,  and  I  forgot  it  when  the  rabbit  went 
by." 

"Wait  for  me,"  said  Mark,  and  ran  off.  In  spite  of 
his  heavy  build,  he  was  fleet  of  foot,  and  had  need  to 
be,  for  even  the  brushwood  blaze  of  an  English  down  is 
hot  enough  to  melt  the  soft  gold  of  an  ornament,  and 
under  the  puffs  of  a  rising  wind  the  flames  were  traveling 


102  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

fast.  "Oh,  don't,  Mark — don't  go!"  Maisie  cried  out, 
but  he  naturally  took  no  notice.  She  watched  him  dash 
straight  across  the  heather  and  leap  the  fifteen- foot  dyke 
in  his  stride,  and  then  he  was  lost  to  sight  behind  a  swell 
of  the  downs. 

It  was  a  race  between  Mark  and  the  advancing  fires. 
They  caught  from  bush  to  bush,  the  papery  unreality 
of  daylight  flame  dancing  over  an  intense  glow  of  scorch- 
ing heat ;  they  stretched  out  capriciously  in  gulf  and  in- 
let, leaving  bays  and  promontories  behind  the  general 
tide.  Mark  tore  off  his  flannel  blazer  and  dashed  for- 
ward with  his  arm  over  his  head  to  keep  the  smoke  out 
of  his  eyes.  So  long  as  his  retreat  lay  open  the  danger 
was  of  the  slightest,  but  the  discomfort  was  considerable, 
and  if  he  had  had  to  cast  about  for  his  direction  he  would 
have  been  driven  back  for  want  of  time.  Luckily  he  had 
taken  his  bearings  after  the  inveterate  habit  of  the  trained 
woodsman,  and  was  able  to  pick  up  the  landmarks  as  he 
ran.  There  on  the  right  was  the  thornbush,  now  spit- 
ting and  crackling  in  a  whirl  of  ardent  tongues;  there 
was  Maisie's  deep  heather  tussock  still  uncaught ;  within 
a  yard's  radius  the  locket  must  have  dropped  when  she 
sprang  to  her  feet.  But  the  heat  was  intense,  and  the 
smoke  was  rolling  up  in  clouds.  Mark  staggered  as  it 
surged  round  him,  and  for  the  first  time  a  distinct  idea 
of  peril  darted  into  his  mind;  if  he  stayed  long  enough 
to  let  that  suffocating  vapor  get  him  by  the  throat  he 
would  go  down  under  it,  and  this  trumpery  heath  fire 
would  burn  the  flesh  from  his  bones  as  surely  as  any 
league-long  Canadian  furnace.  But  to  go  back  to  Maisie 
without  the  miniature  was  impossible.  Mark  scanned 
the  grass :  it  was  not  there.  Then  with  his  heavy  stick 
he  beat  open  the  thorn  bush.  "Oh,  damn!"  he  said 
peevishly.  For  there  lay  the  locket  within  arm's  length, 
but  the  slender  chain  was  wound  in  and  out  low  down 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  103 

among  the  branches,  and  to  get  it  he  had  to  plunge  his 
hand  straight  through  the  surface  blaze. 

Maisie  was  about  to  recross  the  footbridge  when  Mark 
came  up  to  it,  a  figure  out  of  a  Mayday  sweep's  revels, 
his  white  clothes  grimed  with  smoke  and  soot  from  head 
to  foot.  But  he  had  slipped  on  his  blazer  again,  he  was 
smiling,  and  he  held  the  locket  dangling  by  its  fragile 
chain.  "Saw  it  directly,"  he  said.  "Awfully  sorry  I 
broke  the  chain,  though.  Most  clumsy  of  me." 

"But,  Mark,  aren't  you  hurt  ?  You  had  only  those  low 
shoes  on." 

"Pricked  a  bit,"  said  Mark  philosophically.  "Scorched 
my  arm,  too.  Let's  leave  the  eggs,  what  ?  I  might  create 
surprise.  Unless  you  would  like  to  go  on  to  the  farm 
by  yourself,  in  which  case,  if  you'll  excuse  my  escort,  I'll 
wait  for  you." 

"No,  thanks,  we'll  do  without  the  eggs.  Come  home 
and  let  me  see  to  your  arm." 

She  hurried  him  back  along  the  downs  to  the  White 
Cottage,  or  tried  to  do  so,  for  Mark  refused  to  hurry; 
he  was  honestly  amused  by  her  solicitude,  but  the  mishap 
and  the  prevision  of  awkwardness  to  come  had  jarred 
his  temper,  and  amusement  would  soon  have  turned  to 
annoyance  if  Maisie  had  not  let  him  alone.  Luckily 
Maisie  was  bred  in  the  same  tradition.  Till  she  had  him 
indoors  she  ignored  Mark's  malaise  as  stoically  as  she 
would  have  ignored  her  own,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was 
with  a  laconic  trenchancy  which  disposed  of  opposition. 

"Come  in  here,"  she  said,  leading  the  way  into  the 
parlor,  "it's  too  dark  in  the  kitchen.  Sit  by  the  window 
and  let  me  have  a  look  at  you.  Oh,  Mark,  don't  be 
stupid!  If  your  arm  is  burned  it  must  be  dressed,  and 
whether  you  like  it  or  not  you'll  have  to  let  me  help 
you."  Then  as  she  drew  off  the  loose  blazer  she  saw 
that  there  was  not  much  sleeve  under  it  to  cut.  "Hallo ! 


104  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Oh,  I  see.  Because  of  the  smoke?  H'm:  that  smarts, 
I  should  say.  Your  shoulder  too?  You  might  have 
warned  me  before  you  got  your  jacket  off.  Luckily  we've 
some  olive  oil  in  the  place."  With  the  aid  of  the  oil  she 
was  carefully  removing  the  charred  linen,  and  Mark  ad- 
mired her  deftness.  "So  I  ought  to  be,"  said  Maisie 
carelessly.  "I  hold  every  certificate  you  can  get  under 
the  Red  Cross.  Can  you  get  your  arm  into  warm  water 
if  I  stand  the  basin  on  the  window-sill?  Quite  like  old 
days,  this."  She  was  tearing  up  a  linen  sheet  into  strips, 
and  Mark  sat  still,  fretted  but  amused;  his  arm  was 
scorched  from  elbow  to  shoulder  where  he  had  plunged 
it  into  the  blazing  sprigs,  and,  little  as  he  liked  the  situa- 
tion, his  body  appreciated  her  unflinching  delicacy  of 
touch.  "Now  I'm  going  to  bandage  you."  She  stood 
back,  regarding  her  handiwork.  "Look  here,  Mark,  you 
mustn't  move  that  arm  or  you'll  make  it  really  bad. 
You'll  have  to  let  me  help  you  into  a  fresh  shirt.  Where 
are  they — in  your  suit-case  ?  Don't  get  up." 

"Thanks  very  much.  I'm  fearfully  sorry  to  bother 
you." 

"I  wonder  what  uncivilized  man  does  when  he  feels 
embarrassed  and  hasn't  a  civilized  mask  to  wear,"  the 
say-all  Maisie  observed  with  her  irresponsible  irony. 
Mark  twisted  his  mustache  to  hide  a  laugh,  but  he  did 
not  like  it,  and  he  was  beginning  to  get  angry.  She 
drew  his  shirt  down  from  the  bandaged  arm.  "Good 
heavens!  where  did  you  get  that  scar?" 

"St.  "filoi,"  Mark  answered  laconically. 

"It  must  have  been  touch  and  go." 

"It  was,  I  believe.  That  dark-blue  tie — do  you  mind  ? 
Can't  tie  a  knot  with  one  hand.  Thanks  ever  so  much. 
You  might  fix  me  up  a  sling  while  you're  about  it." 

"No  fear!"  said  Maisie  scornfully.  "Can  I  take  a 
couple  of  these  handkerchiefs?  Dear,  dear,  what  a 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  105 

dandy  we  are !  Irish  linen,  and  finer  than  mine.  Never 
mind,  I  like  you  for  being  a  dandy.  Philip  was  too." 
She  came  behind  him  to  secure  the  sling,  and  swiftly, 
when  it  was  done,  she  leaned  down  over  his  shoulder 
and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  cheek.  Mark  started  and 
flushed.  "Just  one  kiss,  because  you  saved  my  locket  for 
me,"  Maisie  whispered.  "I  haven't  thanked  you — what? 
Oh,  Mark,  you  didn't  mind?" 

Sturt  had  risen  to  his  feet.  "You  are  far  too  kind," 
he  said,  and  the  courtesy  out  like  a  whip.  "But  don't  let 
me  give  you  any  more  trouble,  I  can  manage  now  by 
myself." 

By  the  time  Mark  came  in  to  lunch,  the  beauty  of  the 
morning  was  over.  Clouds  had  gathered  with  the  swift- 
ness of  storm,  the  wind  was  moaning  in  the  glen,  and 
thunder  was  rolling  all  round  the  horizon,  while  big 
drops  of  rain,  the  first  they  had  seen  at  Ushant,  had 
begun  to  splash  down  on  the  hot  stones,  which  smoked 
under  them  like  a  furnace.  Mark  had  changed  into  a 
serge  suit,  and  in  putting  it  on  seemed  to  have  put  off 
the  gypsy ;  he  looked  as  he  had  looked  on  his  first  arrival, 
rather  out  of  place  and  too  big  for  his  surroundings, 
and  he  was  very  polite  to  Maisie  and  very  constrained. 

The  conditions  of  life  at  the  White  Cottage  were  in 
fact  so  difficult  that  they  could  be  ignored  only  so  long 
as  the  fiction  of  unconsciousness  could  be  kept  up,  and 
constraint  was  sure  to  follow  the  trying  relations  into 
which  Mark's  slight  accident  had  thrown  the  husband 
and  wife;  but  it  would  have  been  nothing  if  Mark  had 
not  lost  his  temper.  Modern  intercourse  is  so  nicely 
adjusted  that  it  is  probably  harder  to  get  back  to  friendly 
terms  after  a  hot  speech,  than  it  was  in  Tudor  times 
after  a  blow.  Mark  would  have  liked  to  apologize.  He 
was  exceedingly  ashamed  of  himself.  But  how  could  he 


106  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

reopen  the  subject?  He  felt  himself  obliged  to  step  deli- 
cately ;  and  meanwhile,  though  he  did  not  'know  it,  Maisie 
was  suffering  torment  under  his  impassive  gentleness. 
Ever  since  the  night  in  the  garden  at  Shotton,  Sturt  had 
looked  on  Maisie  as  female  mystery  incarnate ;  but  what 
had  never  once  occurred  to  him  was  that,  if  he  did  not 
understand  her,  still  less  could  she  understand  him.  His 
mental  processes  were  a  complete  blank  to  her,  and,  while 
Mark  was  casting  about  for  a  form  of  apology  which 
should  not  double  his  offense,  Maisie  was  a  prey  to  blind 
panic.  As  soon  as  lunch  was  over  she  fled.  She  said 
she  was  going  to  get  the  eggs.  She  refused  to  let  Mark 
go  with  her,  and  swung  off  bareheaded  and  without  an 
umbrella  through  a  gathering  storm  which  threatened 
every  minute  to  become  a  downpour. 

Mark  settled  himself  with  his  pipe  and  a  book,  but 
The  Origins  of  the  Twentieth  Century  failed  to  hold  his 
attention.  The  wind  rose  steadily,  the  thunder  became 
almost  unintermittent,  rain  began  to  fall  in  sheets.  An 
hour  and  a  half  went  by;  ample  time  for  Maisie  to  get 
to  the  farm  and  back.  Mark  went  into  the  bedroom  and 
looked  out  seaward.  Spray  was  mixed  with  rain  on 
the  glass,  he  heard  the  drumming  of  great  breakers  on 
the  cliffs,  and  far  as  the  eye  could  see  the  Channel  was 
an  angry  waste  of  black  and  white  under  a  louring  sky. 
A  big  ship  went  by  far  out,  keeping  wide  of  that  tor- 
mented shore.  Lightning  fell  in  steep  flashes,  sometimes 
in  two  places  at  the  same  moment.  By  force  of  will 
Mark  obliged  himself  to  go  back  to  his  book,  but  when 
six  o'clock  struck  and  Maisie  had  been  gone  between 
two  and  three  hours  he  gave  up  all  pretense  of  reading. 
He  would  have  gone  to  meet  her  if  he  had  known  in 
what  direction  to  go,  but  he  had  no  idea  what  had  become 
of  her.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  she  was  shel- 
tering at  the  farm,  but  he  could  not  believe  it.  Maisie 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  107 

disliked  the  Biddle  family,  who  were  Strict  Baptists  and 
looked  down  their  noses  at  the  strange  tenants  of  the 
White  'Cottage.  Half -past  six  struck,  then  seven ;  Mark 
in  sheer  desperation  was  just  groping  among  his  wife's 
dresses  to  find  her  waterproof  before  he  went  to  look 
for  her,  when  the  latch  lifted  and  Maisie  came  in. 

Mark  came  out  of  the  bedroom — and  stopped  short. 
"Good  heavens !  where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Out,"  said  Maisie  baldly. 

"You  don't  say  so!  My  dear  girl,  what  have  you 
been  doing?" 

"The  Biddies  hadn't  any  eggs,  or  anyhow  they  wouldn't 
let  me  have  any.  I  walked  into  Ushant  and  got  them  at 
the  shop." 

"Two  miles  to  the  farm,  five  by  road  from  the  farm 
to  Ushant,  four  back  to  the  cottage.  Is  this  your  idea  of 
a  joke?" 

She  put  the  basket  of  eggs  on  the  table  and  passed 
slowly  into  her  own  room.  A  small  river  marked  her 
track  on  the  floor.  "Dear  Mark,  don't  scold  me!  I  got 
sick  of  it  long  before  I  turned  back,  but  I  said  I  was  go- 
ing to  get  those  eggs  and  I  got  them.  The  sky  was  mag- 
nificent— well  worth  a  wetting.  It  won't  hurt  me,  you 
know.  Nothing  like  that  ever  does.  It  was  too  bad  of 
me  to  leave  you  to  get  your  own  tea,  though.  How's  the 
arm?" 

"Are  you  getting  out  of  your  wet  things?" 

"Oh,  yes — stockings  and  all.  Why,  Mark,  you  sound 
quite  anxious !  Have  you  been  wondering  what  had  be- 
come of  me?  I  thought  you  would  be  sure  to  guess." 

"Naturally  I  was  anxious.  I  should  have  come  to 
fetch  you  back  if  I  had  had  any  idea  where  you  were. 
If  I  go  into  the  parlor  will  you  come  and  dry  yourself 
by  the  fire?" 

"Bless  you,  I'm  not  cold!"  Maisie  sang  out,  laughing. 


108  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"I  was  walking  too  fast  to  get  chilly.  Eleven  miles  in 
three  hours  and  a  quarter  isn't  bad  going  for  a  woman 
in  a  wind  like  this.  I'd  much  rather  you  would  take  the 
top  off  the  stove  and  put  the  soup  on,  if  you  can  manage 
it  with  one  hand ;  it's  all  ready  in  the  big  saucepan.  What 
a  storm,  isn't  it?  Let's  have  the  curtains  drawn  and 
light  up.  It's  like  a  winter's  night,  as  wild  as  Decem- 
ber." 

Mark  set  on  the  soup  and  drew  the  curtains,  shutting 
out  the  early-fallen  dusk ;  he  could  not  shut  out  the  wind, 
which  crept  in  between  the  joists  of  the  floor  and  the 
crannied  masonry  of  the  walls,  or  rushed  down  the  chim- 
ney and  drove  puffs  of  smoke  and  sparks  out  into  the 
room,  making  the  starry  candle  flames  flicker  and  pine. 
He  spread  the  cloth  for  Maisie,  laying  the  china  and 
silver  as  she  liked  them  to  be  laid,  and  a  bowl  of  branch- 
ing scabious  and  sea-poppies  between  the  candelabra. 
"Aren't  you  nearly  ready?"  he  called  out.  "You  ought 
to  be  hungry,  Maisie." 

"Ye-es.     I  feel  a  little  shy." 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  get  it  up  anyhow,  it's  as  wet  as  if  I'd  just 
washed  it,"  said  Maisie  apologetically.  She  came  out 
into  the  doorway  of  her  room,  the  flicker  of  shade  and 
shine  playing  over  her  from  head  to  foot;  and  Mark 
stood  up  and  raised  his  hand.  She  had  changed  her  wet 
serge  for  a  French  dinner  dress  of  silver  tissue,  her  high 
boots  for  silver  sandals;  and  over  all  she  wore,  like  a 
fairy  mantle,  the  damp  glittering  tresses  of  her  long 
hair. 

"I  salute  the  Princess  Cinderella,  Maisie." 

She  slipped  into  her  chair  without  meeting  his  eyes. 
"Oh,  Mark,  you  shouldn't  have  done  all  this.  How 
good  of  you !  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  how  your  arm 
is." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  109 

"All  right,  thanks,  I'd  forgotten  about  it.  May  it 
please  your  Highness " 

"What?    Oh,  Mark,  don't!  oh,  how  can  you?" 

He  had  passed  from  a  military  salute  to  one  of  a 
purely  civilian  nature.  Maisie  turned  away  from  him, 
leaning  her  cheek  on  her  palm,  but  her  other  hand  lay 
passive  in  his  grasp,  and  Mark,  bending  his  head,  touched 
it  with  his  lips.  "Am  I  forgiven?  I  know  it  was  my 
bearishness  that  drove  you  out  of  the  house  this  after- 
noon, and  I  can't  sit  down  to  dinner  with  you  till  I've 
received  absolution.  I'm  very  sorry,  and  I  never  will 
do  so  any  more." 

"Yes,  Mark,  you  are  forgiven.  It  wasn't  your  fault, 
it  was  mine ;  it  is  all  my  fault,  all." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mark  cheerfully.  "I  quite 
thought  some  of  it  was  mine,  that  time.  So  now  we'll 
have  our  soup." 

Outside  the  wind  shrieked,  threatening  wrecks,  the 
lightning  was  so  bright  that  it  shone  through  the  curtains 
and  dimmed  the  candles,  and  hard  on  the  heels  of  every 
flash  a  roar  of  thunder  seemed  to  shake  the  house ;  but 
inside  deep  peace  had  fallen,  that  peace  of  heart  which 
no  storms  can  break.  Neither  Mark  nor  Maisie  said  any- 
thing more  than  the  small  remarks  proper  to  the  occa- 
sion, as  when  Maisie  offered  to  butter  Mark's  bread  for 
him,  and  Mark  asked  if  she  would  very  much  mind  un- 
screwing the  bottled  beer;  but  after  all  it  is  of  these 
homely  threads  that  the  stuff  of  intimacy  is  woven,  and 
Maisie  felt  herself  nearer  to  Mark  while  she  cut  up  his 
cold  chicken  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  When  the 
meal  was  over,  Mark  essayed  to  help  her  clear  the  table, 
but  his  aid  was  refused.  "No:  you  had  all  the  bother 
of  laying  it,  and  anyhow  you  couldn't  wash  up  with  one 
hand.  Go  and  sit  in  the  big  chair  by  the  fire  and  be 
comfy,  it's  as  cold  as  cold  to-night."  She  slipped  on  a 


110  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

big  apron  and  caught  up  a  ribbon  to  tie  back  her  hair. 

"I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  woman  with  hair  like  yours, 
Maisie." 

"It's  too  long  and  too  heavy,"  said  Maisie  with  un- 
affected impatience.  "I  should  like  to  cut  it  off." 

"I  enter  a  caveat." 

"Then  I  won't,"  said  Maisie  sweetly. 

Mark  sat  down  sideways  in  the  big  oaken  arm-chair, 
crossed  his  knees,  lit  his  pipe,  and  lounged  at  ease,  watch- 
ing his  wife.  Maisie  washed  up  the  dinner  things  rather 
slowly ;  perhaps  she  was  more  tired  than  she  was  willing 
to  confess.  She  went  into  the  parlor,  and  he  heard  her 
closing  the  heavy  storm  shutters  and  barring  them;  then 
she  returned  to  the  kitchen  and  shot  the  bolt  of  the  door. 
Their  small  preparations  for  the  night  were  complete. 
Maisie  slipped  her  apron  off  again  and  came  back  to 
the  fireside,  blowing  out  the  candles  on  her  way.  She 
dropped  half  a  dozen  cushions  on  the  floor  and  sat  down 
at  Mark's  feet,  her  flounced  skirts  flowing  out  all  round 
her  like  a  silver  lakelet:  she  leaned  her  head  against  his 
knee.  Mark  sat  very  still. 

"Our  last  night  at  the  White  Cottage.  I'm  sorry  you 
should  have  had  such  a  rotten  time  to-day.  Is  your  arm 
smarting  badly?" 

"Hardly  at  all,  thanks." 

"Will  you  let  me  change  the  dressings  for  you  before 
you  go  to  sleep?" 

"I  shall  be  most  awfully  grateful  to  you  if  you  will. 
That  stuff  you  put  on — salad  oil  or  whatever  it  was — 
did  me  ever  so  much  good.  I  expect  I  should  have 
had  quite  a  bad  arm  if  you  weren't  so  exceedingly 
skillful." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Mark." 

"Yes?"  said  Mark  cheerfully.  He  held  a  match  to 
the  fire— he  could  not  strike  it  with  one  hand — leaned 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  111 

back  at  full  length  in  his  chair  and  relit  the  nearer 
candles. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?" 

"  'Hate  sitting  in  the  dark.  Dismal  show  to-night  any- 
how; sure  to  be  wrecks  along  this  coast  before  morning 
— By  Jove,  that  was  a  near  thing!" 

The  wind  came  roaring  up  the  glen,  shook  the  cot- 
tage, and  traveled  on  over  the  downs  in  a  high  continu- 
ous shriek  like  the  note  of  a  siren.  As  it  passed,  came 
flash  and  crash  together,  and  then  the  smash  of  splin- 
tered wood,  a  loud  tearing  creak,  and  the  splash  of  leaves 
and  twigs  dragging  down  through  other  foliage  to  the 
ground.  "Tree  struck,"  said  Mark.  "In  the  glen." 

"I  should  think  even  you  won't  want  to  sleep  out  of 
doors  to-night,  will  you?" 

"I've  been  out  in  worse  weather,  but  not  from  choice. 
No:  I  shall  turn  in  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor." 

"What  a  wretched  state  of  things !"  said  Maisie  slowly. 
"Mark,  I  know  you're  fagged,  I  know  you  don't  want  to 
talk  to  me :  I  know  you're  trying  to  put  me  off.  But  this 
is  my  last  chance,  and  I  must  speak  to  you.  After  all,  I 
am  your  wife." 

"Yes,"  said  Mark  lightly.    "And  no  other  man's." 

"Why — why  won't  you,  Mark  ?  Is  it  because  you  don't 
like  me?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  like  you  exceedingly." 

"You  mean — don't  you? — like  me  for  what  I  am,  not 
only  for  my  looks  ?"  Mark  assented.  "I  know,"  Maisie 
went  on.  "We're  good  companions,  aren't  we?  There 
must  be  thousands  of  contented  husbands  and  wives  who 
aren't  so  companionable  as  we  are.  That  is  what  I 
don't  understand.  If — if  you  really  didn't  like  me,  I 
could  understand  your  refusing:  but  feeling  as  you  do 
it  seems  so  overstrained."  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
her  fearless  brilliant  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  child,  as  Mark 


112  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

had  come  to  believe.  "After  all,  I  am  your  wife.  We're 
bound  to  each  other  for  life,  and  neither  of  us  can  ever 
marry  any  one  else.  We  couldn't  even  get  a  divorce, 
because  no  judge  would  believe  such  a  story.  You're 
putting  us  both  into  a  false  position.  When  I  struck 
this  insane  bargain — for  I  see  now  that  it  was  insane — 
I  had  no  right  to  do  it  for  anything  on  earth — but  at  all 
events  it  never  crossed  my  mind  that  you  would  repu- 
diate your  share  of  it;  that  you  meant  to  give  me  the 
protection  of  your  name  without  accepting  any  return 
for  it." 

"I  did  not  mean  it." 

"You  didn't  mean  it  when  you  came  down  here?  Oh, 
I'm  glad !  You  changed  your  mind — at  the  eleventh  hour, 
wasn't  it?  Literally?  Somehow  I  thought  that  was  the 
way  of  it,  only  it  seemed  so  queer.  Why  did  you  change 
your  mind?"  He  was  silent.  "Mark,  I'm  very  stupid 
and  ignorant,  but  I'm  not  absolutely  blind.  You  look 
tired  to  death,  tired  and  downright  ill.  No  man's  nerves 
will  stand  this  sort  of  thing  without  wear  and  tear,  they 
aren't  made  that  way.  Any  man  of  the  world  would 
tell  you  that  you  had  far  better,  both  for  your  own  sake 
and  mine,  make  the  best  of  the  position."  Still  he  held 
his  peace.  "Speak  to  me,  Mark.  To-morrow  you'll  go 
away  from  me  and  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  see  you 
again.  Why — why  won't  you  marry  me?" 

"Do  you  want  me  to  marry  you,  Maisie?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  my  dear !"  said  Mark  under  his  breath. 

He  drew  her  down  against  his  knee  again,  stroking 
her  hair  with  his  hand. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  don't  think  it 
right.  You  know  that  to  a  Catholic  marriage  is  a  sacra- 
ment. I  suppose — it  sounds  a  rotten  thing  to  say — what 
I  feel  is  that  I  don't  love  you." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  113 

"Oh." 

"And  you  don't  love  me.  Apparently  you  think  that 
doesn't  matter,  but  I  can  tell  you  that  it  does  matter  to 
many  women,  and  I  think  the  odds  are  you  would  find 
you  were  one  of  them.  But  you  say  you  are  my  wife. 
Well :  I  never  ought  to  have  married  you.  I'm  sure  this 
must  seem  overstrained  to  you :  I  know  most  men  would 
not  feel  about  it  as  I  do.  I  dare  say  I'm  all  wrong.  But, 
having  taken  one  false  step,  I  won't  go  on  and  take  an- 
other. You  might  hate  me,  Maisie,  if  I  did." 

"But  if  I  don't  mind " 

"You  think  you  don't  mind,  dear,  because  you  are 
only  a  child  and  don't  know  anything  about  it.  That's 
why  I  was  so  much  more  in  the  wrong  all  through  than 
you  were.  I  ought  to  have  guarded  you.  You  had  your 
small  reason,  I  suppose — I  don't  know  what  it  was  and 
it  doesn't  much  matter.  You  didn't  know  that  there  was 
any  particular  reason  for  not  doing  it.  You  see,  dear, 
you  don't  understand." 

"And  you  do,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,"  said  Mark  sadly.     "I  do." 

"And  where  did  you  get  your  experience  ?"  said  Maisie. 
"From  the  girl  who  died  ?" 

"Good  God!"  said  her  husband. 

He  walked  over  to  the  door,  threw  it  open,  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  woodwork,  wind  and  rain  beating  in 
on  him.  Maisie  rose  languidly  to  her  feet :  she  glanced 
at  Mark  once  or  twice,  but  she  did  not  speak  to  him. 
She  went  about  one  or  two  small  duties  which  were 
generally  left  to  the  end  of  the  evening,  throwing  on 
more  coal  and  laying  a  bundle  of  sticks  on  the  rack  to 
dry  before  they  were  needed  to  light  the  fire  next  day. 
At  length  she  touched  Mark's  sleeve.  "Shall  I  dress 
your  arm  now?" 

He  turned  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.     "About 


114  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

the  girl  I  told  you  about.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  only 
saw  her  half  a  dozen  times.  She  died  at  sixteen.  She 
was — she  died  at  the  hands  of  drunken  Prussian  sol- 
diery." 

"I  know,  Mark." 

«you_know  ?" 

"I  know  she  died  innocent.  I  only  struck  at  her  to 
hurt  you.  Poor  child!  I  can't  hurt  her." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Maisie." 

"I'm  sure  you  don't.  Will  you  let  me  see  to  your 
arm?" 

"No.    Go  to  your  room." 

"Mark " 

"I'm  not  angry,  but  you  must  leave  me  alone.  I  don't 
blame  you  for  wanting  to  hurt  me,  because  I  don't  doubt 
that  I  myself  have  hurt  you,  though  most  unwillingly. 
But  I  really  can't  stand  any  more  of  it  at  present,  my 
dear." 

He  opened  the  door  of  her  room  and  stood  aside  for 
Maisie  to  pass  in. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  my  key,  Mark?" 

He  had  taken  the  key  from  the  inside  of  the  lock. 
"What  are  you  doing  ?"  Maisie  repeated — "Mark !  Really, 
that  isn't  necessary.  Don't  be  afraid,  I  shan't  renew  my 
— my  solicitations." 

Mark  stepped  back  into  the  kitchen,  shut  the  door 
between  them,  slipped  the  key  into  the  lock  on  his  own 
side,  and  turned  it.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  chair  by 
the  fire  and  sat  for  hours  without  movement,  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hand.  ' 


CHAPTER    VII 
"From  of  old,  virtue  in  man  is  by  men  praised  with  a  sneer." 

LAWRENCE  STURT,  Mark's  elder  brother  by  twen- 
ty minutes,  had  rooms  in  Chelsea,  where  he  stayed 
when  he  was  not  hunting,  or  shooting,  or  fishing,   or 
otherwise   making   life    uncomfortable    for   the    animal 
world. 

He  was  an  inch  or  so  taller  than  Mark,  half  a  stone 
or  so  lighter,  and  much  better  looking,  though  they 
were  alike ;  the  strong  regular  features,  which  in  Mark 
had  been  left  blunt,  were  refined  in  Lawrence  to  an 
almost  effeminate  delicacy,  and  the  general  coloring  was 
more  pronounced.  In  character  the  difference,  in  spite 
of  a  large  common  stock  of  experience,  tradition,  and 
impulse,  was  even  more  marked,  though  here  again  it 
followed  apparently  the  same  line  of  cleavage,  for  Law- 
rence got  credit  for  much  more  originality  of  action 
than  Mark.  Lawrence,  though  happy  to  trade  on  his 
seniority,  had  consistently  declined  to  perform  any  of 
the  duties  of  his  position,  while  Mark  had  gone  first  into 
business  and  then  into  Parliament  without  expressing 
any  pronounced  views  or  tastes  of  his  own.  Mark  was 
a  Liberal  Unionist  as  his  father  had  been  before  him. 
Lawrence — when  he  thought  about  it — proclaimed  the 
doctrine  of  Feudalism,  as  evolved  after  the  war  by  a 
small  reactionary  clique  of  intransigeants  who  held  that 
Labor  had  proved  itself  unfit  to  govern.  Mark  remained 
a  docile  member  of  his  mother  Church,  Lawrence  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  his  salad  clays  by  writing  violently 
atheistical  articles  in  a  clandestine  College  review,  and 

115 


116  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

later  settled  down  into  what  is  sometimes  called  "the 
religion  of  all  wise  men."  Lastly,  Mark  kept  clear  of 
women,  while  Lawrence  shot  by  an  eccentric  orbit  from 
one  bright  and  dangerous  luminary  to  another — but  never, 
to  vary  the  metaphor  a  little,  burned  his  wings  on  the 
way. 

Lawrence  was  at  the  present  time  not  best  pleased 
with  his  brother,  who  had  vanished  in  a  most  irregular 
and  uncharacteristic  manner  at  the  moment  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  getting  together  his  outfit  for  the 
Colorado  journey.  Lawrence,  who  had  come  up  to  town 
in  the  heat  of  late  July  to  expedite  his  own  arrangements, 
was  annoyed  when  he  learned  from  Henham,  at  Mark's 
flat,  that  Mark  had  been  away  for  a  week  and  had  left 
no  address.  Repairing  to  a  club,  he  found  it  in  the  hands 
of  the  paperhangers,  and  was  obliged  to  dine  at  a  restau- 
rant and  go  on  by  himself  to  a  dreary  and  belated  play. 
After  three  acts  he  gave  it  up  and  went  home.  He  came 
into  his  drawing-room  in  a  thoroughly  bad  temper,  tried 
to  grope  his  way  across  in  the  dark  (the  service  was  com- 
munal, and  in  one  of  his  fits  of  medievalism  he  had  cut 
off  the  electric  light),  knocked  over  a  chair,  swore,  and 
struck  a  match.  When  he  had  lit  the  immense  hanging 
lamp  of  wrought  Moroccan  brass,  which  stained  the 
room  from  end  to  end  in  ember  red,  he  turned  round  and 
saw  that  he  was  not  alone.  Mark  Sturt  had  been  sitting 
waiting  for  him*  in*  the  dark.  Lawrence,  a  sensitive  me- 
dium, experienced  a  slight  disagreeable  shock.  He  tilted 
up  the  lamp  and  looked  sharply  at  his  brother,  who  sat 
far  back  in  a  deep  chair  in  a  favorite  attitude,  more  quiet- 
even  than  usual  because  he  was  not  smoking. 

"Hullo,  Mark!  I've  just  been  round  to  look  you  up. 
What  possessed  you  to  go  off  and  not  leave  any  address  ? 
I  cursed  you  high  and  low." 

"Did  you  ?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  117 

"Good  God !  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  ?" 

"Nothing:  what  should  I?" 

"I  suppose  it's  this  red  light  that  makes  you  look  so 
queer,"  said  Lawrence :  "hanged  if  I  think  it  is,  though. 
I  say,  Mark,  have  you  been  ill?" 

"Not  I." 

Lawrence  opened  his  lips — and  shut  them  again. 
"Either  that,  or  you've  been  on  the  spree,  my  friend," 
was  his  unspoken  comment.  But  since  Mark  did  not 
seem  to  be  at  all  inclined  to  receive  sympathy  he  judged 
it  wiser  to  quit  the  subject. 

"I  went  round  this  afternoon  to  row  Bannatyne  about 
the  guns,"  he  said,  dropping  into  a  chair  and  crossing 
one  knee  over  the  other.  "Have  a  drink — no?  Well, 
you  are  in  a  bad  way. — I  asked  him  if  yours  were  ready 
and  he  said  they  weren't.  So  then  I  asked  him  why  he 
was  so  infernally  slow,  and  he  said  he'd  written  to  you 
about  them  and  got  no  answer.  Didn't  you  get  his  let- 
ter?" 

"I  believe  I  did,  but  I  forgot  to  write  back." 

"My  good  chap,  perhaps  it  has  slipped  your  memory 
that  we  start  on  the  second?" 

"That's  what  I  came  to  see  you  about.  I'm  not  go- 
ing." 

"Not  going  to  Colorado?" 

"No." 

"Why  not  ?"  Mark  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "But  what 
are  you  going  to  do,  then  ?  You  don't  mean  to  stop  on 
here  in  town  by  yourself?" 

"No:  but  I  can't  get  as  far  as  Colorado.  I  simply 
haven't  the  energy.  Besides,  I  want  to  go  to  Gatton. 
Bennet  has  been  having  trouble  with  a  section  of  the 
men,  and  wants  a  free  hand,  which  I  don't  propose  to 
give  him.  Then  there's  the  session  coming  on  in  Janu- 
ary. It  wouldn't  give  us  much  time." 


118  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"You  knew  all  that  a  week  ago,"  said  Lawrence,  star- 
ing at  him.  "You  were  keen  enough  then.  What's  put 
you  off?  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  haven't 
enough  energy?" 

"Simply  that,  Lawrence.  I've  been  out  of  sorts  these 
last  few  days;  nothing  wrong,  only  fagged  and  out  of 
sorts.  I  really  don't  feel  up  to  the  American  trip.  I'm 
sorry  to  throw  you  over,  but  if  you  don't  want  to  go 
alone  why  not  try  to  get  hold  of  Considine?  Last  time 
I  heard  from  him  he  seemed  to  be  at  a  loose  end." 

"Because  I  swore  I'd  never  take  Considine  on  a  shoot- 
ing trip  again.  He  always  wipes  my  eye  if  he  gets  the 
chance,  and  he  has  a  trick  of  firing  down  the  line  when 
he  gets  agitated  which  inspires  me  with  deadly  alarm. 
I  like  sport,  but  Considine  is  the  limit." 

"Hugo  Wilson  would  jump  at  the  chance." 

"  'I — ah — never  shoot  with  the  same  guns  two  seasons 
running.  Bannatyne  has  a  standing  order  to  build  me  a 
pair  a  year."'  Lawrence,  a  born  mimic,  dropped  swiftly 
into  the  classic  Cambridge  drawl.  "Thank  you." 

"Sorry:  I  didn't  mean  to  let  you  down."  Mark  was 
genuinely  apologetic:  he  knew  that  Lawrence  hated  his 
own  company,  and  he  knew  too,  from  long  experience, 
that  no  finicking  sportsman  stood  any  chance  of  tolera- 
tion. Had  there  been  no>  second  side  to  Lawrence  Sturt's 
life  the  brothers  would  have  drifted  apart  because  they 
would  have  had  nothing  whatever  in  common,  but  the 
Mirabell  of  purple  and  fine  linen  whom  fair  ladies  knew 
in  town  was  a  different  man  from  the  bearded  ruffian, 
dirty  and  cheerful,  for  whom  no  days  were  too  long  and 
no  conditions  too  severe.  "Surely  you  can  beat  up  an- 
other fellow  between  this  and  the  second?" 

"The  time's  so  short.  Besides" — Lawrence  Sturt 
turned  his  black  eyes  again  on  his  brother,  and  the  cameo 
delicacy  of  his  profile  was  drawn  a  trifle  sharper — "the 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  119 

whole  thing's  so  silly.  You  may  be  out  of  sorts  now, 
but  that's  all  the  more  reason  for  getting  away.  By  the 
time  you've  crossed  the  Atlantic  you'll  be  as  fit  as  you 
were  ten  days  ago,  whereas  if  you  knock  about  here  doing 
nothing  you'll  only  get  more  hipped  every  day  of  your 
life.  Change  is  what  you  want.  If  you  had  been  through 
it  all  as  often  as  I  have,  you'd  know  what  prescription  to 
take." 

"Through  what  all?" 

Lawrence  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "How  do  I  know 
your  precise  turn  of  vanity?  You've  been  away  with 
some  woman,  of  course." 

"Oh,  have  I?" 

"And  she's  let  you  down,  or  you've  had  a  fit  of  con- 
science, some  rotten  nonsense  or  other;  and  you  think 
none  of  it  ever  happened  to  any  one  before.  Go  to 
Colorado,  you  ass!  That's  the  worst  of  men  like  you; 
when  the  things  that  happen  to  everybody  happen  to 
them,  they  labor  under  the  delusion  that  it's  all  quite 
novel  and  exciting.  You  come  to  Colorado'  and  let  her 
rip." 

Mark  laughed.  He  was  amused,  not  so  much  by  what 
Lawrence  said,  as  by  a  snapshot  imagination  of  what 
Lawrence  would  have  said  if  the  truth  had  been  related 
to  him.  There  was  no  man  on  earth  to  whom  Mark 
would  less  willingly  have  confessed  it.  Lawrence  Sturt 
was  a  natural  cynic;  he  affected  nothing  and  concealed 
nothing.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  brother — more  fond 
perhaps  of  Mark  than  Mark  was  of  him — and  he  admired 
what  he  called  the  solidity  of  Mark's  position  and  charac- 
ter, but  Mark's  attitude  towards  women  inspired  in  him 
nothing  but  amusement.  In  his  own  attitude  Lawrence 
was  more  French  than  English,  for  he  was  profoundly  in- 
terested in  women,  and  in  the  leisured  intervals  of  rov- 
ing their  society  was  a  necessity  to  him,  but  he  never 


120  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

lost  the  sense  of  sex,  and  though  he  had  many  women 
friends  they  were  not  immune  from  pursuit.  Several 
such  intimacies  had  come  to  an  abrupt  end — one  way 
or  the  other — by  his  unforeseen  transition  from  friend- 
ship to  passion ;  and  this  from  pure  neglect  of  the  moral 
issue,  for  to  him  passion  was  merely  a  coming  to  terms. 
Preference  of  one  man  to  another  he  could  respect, 
though  he  was  inclined  to  share  Donne's  view  of  a  con- 
stant lover,  but  virtue  in  the  abstract  as  a  motive  for 
refusal  moved  him  merely  to  derision  in  a  man,  and  in 
a  woman  to  pity.  Useless  to  resent  his  mocking  coun- 
sels ;  he  did  honestly  think  Mark  a  fool  to  let  himself  be 
moved  one  step  out  of  his  way  by  any  woman,  whatever 
the  link  might  have  been.  However,  nothing  could  have 
thrown  Lawrence  out  more  effectively  than  Mark's  short, 
unwilling  laugh,  which  made  him  doubt  his  own  diagnosis ; 
the  patient  is  not  as  a  rule  amused  by  the  surgeon.  He 
shifted  in  his  chair  and  reached  for  his  pipe. 

"I  saw  a  friend  of  yours  to-day — two,  in  fact;  both 
clamoring  for  your  address.  One  was  Father  de  Traf- 
f ord.  Met  him  in  New  Bond  Street.  Is  it  you  that  are 
financing  this  new  mission  scheme  of  his?" 

"Did  he  tell  you  so  ?" 

Lawrence  grinned.  "Not  precisely!  I  don't  know 
why  the  idea  came  into  my  head.  But  he  was  so  over- 
flowing with  gladness  that  he  kept  me  standing  ten  min- 
utes in  the  sun  and  got  a  tenner  out  of  me  in  the  end. 
I  hate  chucking  my  money  away  on  charity,  but  one 
can't  help  admiring  de  Trafford  though  he  is  a  priest. 
After  all  it's  better  form  to  keep  oneself  in  order.  Some 
o'  these  days  I  shall  chuck  up  everything  and  turn  Car- 
thusian monk.  You  see  if  I  don't." 

"Oh,  I  think  not." 

"You  may  be  right.  So  then  I  went  a  bit  farther  on 
and  ran  up  against  Jenny  Essenden,  in  half  mourning — 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  121 

Field  died  at  Nice,  you  know — and  looking  prettier  than 
ever.  She  really  is  what  I  call  a  pretty  woman.  Well, 
she  was  asking  after  you  too.  I  didn't  know  you  knew 
her." 

"I  don't,  except  that  I  was  stopping  in  the  same  hotel 
when  Field  had  his  first  attack  of  hemorrhage.  Naturally 
one  had  to  see  something  of  her  in  the  circumstances. 
Field  wanted  a  lot  of  looking  after,  and  the  hotel  people 
tried  to  kick  up  a  row,  and  Jenny  behaved  as  one  would 
expect  her  to  behave.  Then  his  mother  came  out  to 
look  after  him,  and  Jenny  moved  on.  She  went  back  to 
him  when  he  got  better,  though.  She  was  a  pretty 
woman,  as  you  say." 

"Is  a  pretty  woman,"  Lawrence  corrected  him.  "Black 
and  white  suits  her ;  lovely  brunette  skin  she  has.  She's 
at  a  loose  end  now,  I  fancy.  She  was  annoyed  when  I 
couldn't  tell  her  where  you  were.  I  don't  think  she  be- 
lieved me." 

He  made  Mark  Sturt  throw  back  his  head  and  laugh 
like  a  schoolboy.  "Lawrence,  you  are  impossible !  Take 
her  on  yourself — these  adventures  don't  happen  to  me." 

"H'm.    What  about  Miss  Archdale?" 

"Miss  Archdale?"  Mark  repeated.  He  had  rarely  been 
so  taken  by  surprise,  but  he  was  not  gun-shy,  and  his 
face  expressed  nothing  but  surprise  and  some  faint  an- 
noyance. "What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"I  suppose  you  never  look  at  a  woman  with  your  eyes 
open."  Lawrence  stooped  to  strike  a  match  on  the  heel 
of  his  boot.  "But  I  think  I  pointed  out  to  you  before 
that  it's  precisely  you  fellows  who  never  look  at  a  wo- 
man— well,  of  all  the  touchy  beggars!  Ten  rounds 
rapid,'  hey?  My  good  Mark,  if  you  don't  want  to  know 
what  I  mean,  why  ask?" 

"How  on  earth  was  I  to  know  you  meant  anything  so 
idiotic?"  Mark  retorted;  but,  irritation  overborne  by 


122  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

curiosity,  he  was  weak  enough  to  add,  "Besides,  you  saw 
ten  times  more  of  her  than  I  did.  It  was  not  I  who 
sculled  her  up  the  river !" 

Lawrence  regarded  him  fixedly.  "No:  and  shall  I 
tell  you  what  she  talked  about?  You,  my  young  friend, 
you.  I  tried  to  head  her  off,  because  I  could  have  found 
a  more  amusing  topic  of  conversation  than  the  feats 
which  you  didn't  perform  in  the  Andes,  but  it  was  no 
go,  though  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  my  own  achieve- 
ments were  really  rather  creditable.  So  I  gave  her,  two- 
pence colored,  that  famous  spill  on  the  Horcones  cor- 
niche,  as  the  first  and  last  time  on  that  expedition  when 
you  kept  your  head  and  your  footing :  and,  I  give  you  my 
word,  when  you  cut  the  rope  between  yourself  and 
Mathias  the  lady  was  as  white  as  my  shirt." 

"Oh,  rot,"  said  Mark,  feigning  a  yawn. 

He  swung  himself  to  his  feet.  "Good  night.  I'm 
sorry  to  have  had  to  throw  you  over,  but  it's  unavoid- 
able. Gatton  is  good  enough  for  me  just  now.  If  you 
bar  going  alone  you  might  take  Mrs.  Essenden — what?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  arm  ?" 

"Scorched  it,"  said  Mark,  letting  himself  out  of  the 
door.  He  paused  to  add,  with  ribald  indifference  to 
truth  or  even  probability,  "So  now  you  know  why  I 
can't  go  to  Colorado,  don't  you?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LAWRENCE  and  Mark  Sturt  were  the  twin  sons  of 
a  North  of  England  ironmaster  and  his  beautiful 
Cornish  wife.  Bridget  Sturt — she  was  Bridget  Saltau 
before  she  married — died  when  her  sons  were  three  years 
old;  Mark  retained  a  faint  memory  of  her,  from  Law- 
rence's mind  her  image  had  vanished  as  a  reflection  van- 
ishes out  of  a  mirror.  Mrs.  Sturt  had  not  loved  her 
husband,  and  she  died  partly  of  heart  failure  after  in- 
fluenza and  partly  because  she  found  the  business  of 
life  too  fatiguing  to  be  carried  on  any  longer.  Even  her 
beautiful  boys  could  not  reconcile  her  to  the  necessity 
of  satisfying  Arthur  Sturt's  demands. 

It  was  from  her  that  Lawrence  derived  both  his  looks 
and  his  temperament.  Mark  was  more  like  his  father, 
though  in  him  too  a  strain  of  Celtic  softness  crossed  the 
hard  uncompromising  stock  of  the  Sturt  family.  Arthur 
Sturt  liked  to  call  himself  a  tradesman,  and  a  tradesman 
he  was,  but  on  a  grand  scale.  Born  of  an  old  North  of 
England  family,  but  younger  son  to  a  younger  brother,  he 
had  settled  in  a  Derbyshire  dale  where  land  was  cheap 
and  waterpower  plentiful  and  had  built  up  for  himself 
a  business  which  made  his  name  known  far  and  wide. 
"Sturt's  Patent  Reaper  and  Binder"  was  now  gathering 
sheaves  across  half  Canada,  while  "Sturt's  Patent  Plow" 
eared  the  fertile  acres  of  the  Cape.  A  town  had  sprung 
up  round  the  foundry,  a  small  kingdom  in  which  Arthur 
Sturt  was  king;  he  had  the  knack  of  handling  men,  and 
it  was  his  one  secret  vanity  that  among  his  employees 

123 


124  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

there  had  never  been  a  strike.  Trouble  had  come  near 
more  than  once,  but  had  been  averted  by  prompt  and 
personal  action.  Gatton  loved  Arthur  Sturt,  whom  it 
called  "The  Squire" — a  queer  nickname  for  the  autocrat 
of  a  manufacturing  center,  but  justified  by  his  tall  figure, 
fresh  color,  and  blue  eyes,  as  well  as  by  his  love  of  long 
tramps,  gun  on  shoulder,  and  his  easy  seat  in  the  saddle, 
and  the  endless  anecdotes  told  about  his  genial  ways. 
That  these  anecdotes  were  deceptive — that  the  man  who 
traded  on  the  Squire's  reputed  geniality  would  speedily 
regret  his  little  error — were  the  facts  on  which  the 
Squire's  popularity  was  solidly  based.  He  would  have 
been  called  "soft"  for  his  Tudor  friendliness  and  ac- 
cessibility if  Gatton  had  not  early  felt  the  Tudor  grip 
of  steel.  The  stern  resolute  man,  hard  as  the  rock  of 
his  own  fells,  would  have  made  a  slave-driver  whose 
slaves  never  mutinied.  In  command  of  English  labor 
he  used  different  methods,  certainly,  but  much  the  same 
spirit;  absolute  fearlessness,  absolute  inflexibility,  abso- 
lute impartiality  between  their  claims  and  his  own. 

Perhaps  it  was  in  this  last  quality  that  his  strength  lay. 
It  is  said  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  commercial 
honesty  in  England  to-day,  but  Arthur  Sturt  was  cynically 
honest,  for  he  never  lied,  never  broke  his  word,  never 
took  a  secret  or  unfair  advantage,,  never  abused  the 
power  of  his  capital,  never  overlooked  or  forgot  a  cheat, 
and  was  so  entirely  devoid  of  the  Christian  grace  of  for- 
giveness that  he  liked  no  sport  better  than  the  hounding 
down  of  the  man  who  tried  to  cheat  him.  It  may  be 
added  that  he  was  an  indefatigable  worker.  He  did  not 
marry  till  he  was  fifty,  and  up  to  the  time  of  his  mar- 
riage he  lived  in  a  red  brick  villa  within  half  a  mile  of 
the  works ;  when  it  was  represented  to  him  that  Bridget 
Saltau  could  not  be  transplanted  from  Saltau  Avery  to 
a  red  brick  villa,  he  bought  up  Longstone  Edge,  hill  and 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  125 

dale,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  and  settled  the  estate  and 
the  sixteenth  century  manor  house  which  bears  its  name 
upon  her  and  her  eldest  son  after  her,  but  he  continued 
to  motor  in  to  Gatton  every  day. 

After  Mrs.  Sturt's  death  he  became  even  more  devoted 
to  his  business  than  before.  He  had  certainly  loved  his 
wife;  whether  he  realized  that  she  had  never  loved  him 
and  that  his  marriage  had  been  a  failure  it  was  impos- 
sible to  say,  for  he  never  spoke  of  her.  His  energies 
were  all  concentrated  on  the  expansion  of  Gatton,  on 
the  development  of  new  enterprises,  and  on  the  acquisi- 
tion of  land,  which  he  bought  up  right  and  left,  chiefly 
for  building  purposes,  while  politics  of  the  Chamberlain 
school  provided  distraction  for  his  leisure  hours.  Law- 
rence and  Mark  were  looked  after  by  nurses  and  gov- 
ernesses in  their  tender  years;  at  the  age  of  ten  they 
were  packed  off  to  a  preparatory  school;  Stonyhurst 
followed.  For  their  first  sixteen  years  of  life  their  in- 
tercourse with  their  father  was  confined  to  state  meals 
on  Sundays,  state  attendance  in  the  Catholic  chapel,  and 
an  occasional  state  interview  in  the  study — for  Mr.  Sturt 
was  a  believer  in  the  educational  value  of  a  sound  thrash- 
ing, and  the  ferulas  they  got  at  Stonyhurst  were  mild 
in  comparison  of  the  paternal  riding  whip.  Looking  back 
on  his  youth,  when  he  was  old  enough  to  contrast  it  with 
that  of  other  boys,  Mark  supposed  that  it  had  been  in 
some  ways  a  Spartan  discipline;  but  he  was  too  healthy 
and  happy  to  be  conscious  of  any  want  at  the  time,  for 
he  loved  the  tradition  of  the  old  Catholic  school,  the 
daily  Mass,  the  yearly  Retreat,  the  sodalities,  the  rich 
setting  of  hill  and  woodland,  and  the  immense  playing 
fields,  and  the  unusual  clash  of  rank  and  type  and  age 
which  under  the  segregating  atmosphere  of  the  older 
Faith  made  of  the  place  a  microcosm  a  little  apart  from 
non-Catholic  England;  while  in  the  vacations,  if  there 


126  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

was  no  petting  at  Longstone  Edge,  there  were  guns  and 
horses  and  an  extraordinary  range  of  freedom. 

Throughout  these  early  years  the  brothers  were  closely 
and  tenderly  linked;  they  did  everything  together,  and 
were  never  happy  out  of  each  other's  society.  Gradually, 
however,  they  began  unconsciously  to  develop  individual 
tendencies  and  to  drift  apart,  and  by  the  time  they  passed 
into  the  Higher  Line  each  had  his  own  set,  and  interests 
which  diverged  ever  more  widely.  Mark's  bosom  friend 
was  little  Guy  de  Trafford,  a  born  saint  under  all  his 
devilry;  Lawrence,  a  born  rebel,  led  a  movement  which 
dignified  itself  by  the  name  of  Free  Thought,  though 
its  more  obvious  badges  of  union  were  smuggled  ciga- 
rettes. Mark  was  more  bookish  than  Lawrence,  and 
Lawrence  was  a  keener  sportsman  and  more  adventur- 
ous than  Mark ;  more  popular  also  than  Mark,  who 
masked,  in  his  later  teens,  a  paralyzing  shyness  under  a 
front  of  indifferent  calm.  The  Sturts  were  a  military 
family,  and  Mr.  Sturt  had  meant  to  put  both  his  sons  in 
the  army,  but,  to  the  astonishment  of  his  father,  Law- 
rence at  seventeen,  politely  insubordinate  as  usual,  struck 
for  Cambridge  and  the  diplomatic  service. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Arthur  Sturt  began  to  realize 
how  little  he  knew  of  his  children,  but  for  the  shrewd 
merchant  prince  it  was  not  too  late  to  repair  the  error, 
though  the  gulf  is  wide  between  a  man  of  seventy  and  a 
boy  of  seventeen.  It  did  not  take  him  five  minutes  to 
decide  that  Mark  was  docile  and  that  Lawrence  was 
neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind,  and  that  Mark  was  a  Catho- 
lic by  temperament  while  Lawrence  was  not  and  prob- 
ably never  would  be  one  even  in  name.  Then  Arthur 
Sturt  went  to  Stonyhurst  and  had  long  talks  with  pre- 
fects and  form-masters;  what  he  heard  interested  him 
very  much,  perplexed  him  a  good  deal,  and  caused  him 
to  slap  Lawrence  on  the  back  when  they  next  met,  and 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  127 

to  eye  Mark  with  imperfectly  concealed  mistrust.  Law- 
rence was  annoyed  by  the  one  demonstration,  and  Mark 
was  hurt  by  the  other.  Decidedly  the  belated  fatherhood 
of  Arthur  Sturt  was  working  out  on  odd  lines. 

Mr.  Sturt  was  a  Catholic,  but  a  Catholic  of  a  lax  type. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  Lawrence,  but,  if  Law- 
rence wished  to  go  to  Cambridge,  to  Cambridge  he  should 
go,  though  the  air  of  a  mixed  university  was  not  likely 
to  foster  a  pining  faith.  But  Mr.  Sturt  would  have  been 
more  surprised  than  he  was  if  he  had  known  that  the 
choice  was  dictated  largely  by  a  desire  to  get  away  from 
Mark.  Twins !  there  was  a  hint  of  compulsion  in  the 
tie  which  annoyed  the  adolescent  Lawrence.  Were  they 
to  be  expected  eternally  to  do  the  same  things  in  the 
same  way?  With  his  own  serene  candor,  he  put  the 
case  to  Mark  on  the  eve  of  their  eighteenth  birthday.  "I 
am  sick  to  death  of  you,  Mark.  Aren't  you  sick  to  death 
of  me?  Let  us,  for  heaven's  sake,  get  away  from  each 
other  for  a  bit.  It  isn't  our  fault  that  we're  twins,  but 
it'll  be  our  fault  if  we  continue  to  be  Siamese  twins, 
and  I  propose  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  What  say  you?" 

"Don't  know  that  I  much  care  one  way  or  the  other," 
said  Mark  after  pondering  for  a  moment.  "I  don't 
particularly  mind  seeing  you  about,  if  that's  what  you 
mean."  He  paused,  blew  out  a  whiff  of  smoke,  and 
looked  up  at  his  brother  through  the  cloudy  rings  with 
a  spark  of  laughter  in  his  eye.  "I  don't  particularly 
enjoy  it  either,  if  you  come  to  that.  Rather  like  a  piece 
of  furniture — what?  A  handsome  wardrobe." 

"Oh,  that's  how  I  affect  you,  is  it?"  said  Lawrence. 
"Well,  you  affect  me  like  an  ugly  wardrobe  which  gets  in 
my  way.  Why  do  you  say  'what'  like  that  at  the  end 
of  a  sentence?  Silly  trick." 

"You  do  it  yourself.     I  didn't  know  I  did." 

"There  you  are  again !    We  are  alike :  too  much  alike. 


128  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

I  could  murder  you,  Mark,  when  you  do  the  same  things 
I  do.    I  should  like  to  punch  your  head." 
"Try." 

Lawrence  looked  longingly  at  his  brother.     "Will  you 
really?     Nothing  would  please  me  more,  but   I   didn't 
think  you  were  sportsman  enough.    With  or  without  the 
gloves  ?" 
"Without." 

They  had  forgotten  that  the  schoolroom  was  over  their 
father's  study.  Mr.  Sturt,  after  listening  for  some  min- 
utes to  the  sounds  overhead,  came  upstairs  and  found 
his  sons  engaged  in  a  scientific  and  violent  fight.  He 
dragged  Lawrence  off — Mark  desisted  as  soon  as  the 
door  opened — and  then  standing  between  them  illustrated 
a  family  idiosyncrasy  by  giving  way  to  a  gust  of  laugh- 
ter. It  was  characteristic  of  the  Sturts  that  they  laughed 
when  other  people  would  not  as  a  rule  have  been  amused, 
and  Arthur  Sturt,  iron  founder,  aged  sixty-eight,  made 
the  room  ring  as  he  stood  between  the  disordered  twins. 
Mark  had  lost  a  front  tooth,  Lawrence  had  a  black  eye, 
both  were  streaming  with  blood. 

"You  idiotic  young  puppies !"  said  Mr.  Sturt  as  soon 
as  he  could  speak,  "shake  hands,  will  you?  or  I'll  knock 
both  your  heads  together.  You  won't?  Yes,  you  will, 
my  lads.  Come!  Enough  nonsense.  Mark,  you  have 
more  sense  than  t'other  one."  Mark,  after  a  brief  strug- 
gle with  himself,  held  out  his  hand.  "Now,  Lawrence, 
will  you  have  the  goodness?  No  hanging  back  when 
the  other  fellow  leads  the  way.  Gentlemen  don't  do  it." 
Lawrence  obeyed  sulkily.  "Now,  no  more  of  this:  d'ye 
hear?" 

"Why  didn't  you  let  us  fight  it  out,  sir?"  said  Law- 
rence, with  his  handkerchief  at  his  nose.  "We'd  hardly 
begun.  And  there  were  lots  of  arrears." 

"Why  did  you  choose  the  room  over  my  study  for 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  129 

your  battle-ground,  young  ass  ?"  said  his  father,  strolling 
to  the  door.  "Might  have  gone  down  to  the  stables — 
what?" 

His  conclusion  was  that  on  the  whole  it  was  as  well  for 
the  lads  to  be  separated  for  a  year  or  two. 

Lawrence  shone  at  Cambridge.  That  is  to  say,  he  be- 
came President  of  the  Union,  and  got  his  rowing  blue. 
In  the  intervals  of  these  pursuits  he  read  for  the  Modern 
Language  Tripos,  and,  more  to  his  own  than  to  his  tutor's 
surprise,  was  "allowed  a  pass."  Mr.  Sturt  did  not  seem 
to  mind  much,  nor  did  he  grumble  when  Lawrence's  bills 
began  to  come  in;  tailors'  bills,  wine  merchants'  bills, 
livery-stable  bills,  hotel  bills,  garage  bills — it  really  seemed 
as  though  Lawrence  in  the  three  years  of  his  University 
career  had  taken  an  oath  not  to  waste  a  farthing  of  his 
large  allowance  on  any  account  which  could  be  left  or 
induced  to  run  on.  The  total  was  startling — it  mildly 
surprised  even  Lawrence;  but  Mr.  Sturt  paid  it  without 
turning  a  hair.  Indeed  he  had  small  right  to  complain, 
for  he  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  tutorial  warnings 
which  began  to  rain  on  him  while  Lawrence  was  still  a 
freshman.  Mr.  Sturt  had  come  up  each  year  for  the 
Mays,  and  had  satisfied  himself  that  Lawrence  was 
playing  through  his  University  days  en  prince,  handsome, 
brilliant,  merry,  and  beset  by  friends.  Mark  meanwhile, 
being  put  down  for  an  infantry  commission,  had  a  much 
less  shining  and  expensive  career  at  Sandhurst,  and  came 
out  of  it  with  superfluous  honors  and  a  tinge  of  melan- 
choly in  his  eyes. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  it  became  plain  that  Mr. 
Sturt,  in  his  old  age,  was  growing  very  fond  of  his  elder 
son.  He  kept  a  tight  hand  over  Mark,  even  in  the  matter 
of  an  allowance,  and  since  Mark  paid  his  debts  the  dis- 
parity between  the  twins  was  still  wider  than  it  was 


130  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

meant  to  be.  At  this  time  indeed  the  brothers  were 
farther  apart  than  ever  before  or  after,  for  the  difference 
of  position  accentuated  the  difference  in  temperament; 
Mark,  modest  by  nature,  malleable  by  training,  depressed 
by  want  of  encouragement,  and  painfully  conscious  of 
being  the  poorest  subaltern  in  his  regiment,  was  forced 
back  more  and  more  on  his  own  stoic  pride,  while  in 
Lawrence  on  the  contrary  Mr.  Sturt's  wayward  favors, 
acting  on  a  headstrong  will  and  ardent  passions,  pro- 
duced sheer  license  of  speech  and  act.  Mark  went  shabby 
to  pay  his  mess  bills  and  sold  his  hunter  to  meet  the 
subscriptions  which  drain  a  young  officer's  purse;  while 
Lawrence  was  off  to  Paris  and  Vienna,  nominally  to 
study  languages,  in  reality  to  have  as  gay  a  time  as 
Europe  can  offer  to  gilded  youth.  The  severities  of 
training,  coupled  with  a  nice  dislike  of  cheap  fruit,  had 
kept  him  moderately  straight  at  Cambridge,  but  in  France, 
behind  the  smart  Ministerial  gateways  and  within  the 
gray  old  doors  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  which 
were  unlocked  for  him  by  the  letters  of  his  relatives, 
the  young  man's  education  sentimentale  went  forward 
apace.  Meantime  the  brothers  continued  to  see  nothing 
of  each  other  till  the  cataclysm  of  the  war  tore  up  the 
order  of  their  lives  and  threw  them  again  across  each 
other's  path. 

Long  before  the  crisis,  Lawrence  was  back  in  England 
clamoring  for  a  commission.  He  had  got  a  hint  of  what 
was  coming,  and  he  cursed  himself — in  fluent  German — 
for  having  risen  from  the  table  where  so  great  a  game 
was  to  be  played.  Luckily  it  was  not  too  late  to  pick  up 
the  cards — as  a  University  graduate  and  ex-lieutenant  of 
the  Officers'  Training  Corps  he  was  still  eligible  for 
Sandhurst,  and  Arthur  Sturt,  hot-blooded  as  any  boy, 
wrote  off  post-haste  to  claim  the  nomination  which  his 
old  friend  Lord  Vere  had  promised  him  long  ago,  and 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  131 

which,  alas !  he  had  not  cared  to  claim  for  Mark.  Never- 
theless, do  what  Lawrence  would,  Mark  had  the  start  of 
him.  Mark  was  sent  immediately  to  the  front,  landing 
at  le  Havre  in  the  early  days  of  August,  when  nin&- 
tenths  of  England  did  not  know  that  a  man  had  left  her 
shores;  a  subaltern  in  a  line  regiment,  he  went  through 
all  the  horrors  of  the  great  retreat,  dreamed  his  dream 
at  Vitry-le-Frangois  when  the  tide  turned,  and  left  his 
youth  between  Meaux  and  Soissons,  when  stubborn  flight 
collected  itself  into  grim  advance,  and  the  Germans  were 
hammered  back  at  ten  miles  a  day  over  bridgeless  rivers 
and  treeless  fields  and  roads  aflash  with  discarded  shells 
and  accouterments  and  smelling  of  dead  horses  and  men. 
Early  in  October  Lawrence  came  out  with  a  draft  of 
reinforcements,  and  chance  threw  him  straight  across 
Mark's  path.  They  met  in  a  village  street  after  a  name- 
less action,  linesman  and  guardsman,  both  mud  from 
head  to  heel,  both  deaf  with  the  roar  of  the  guns,  both 
reeling  with  exhaustion. 
"Hullo,  Lawrence !" 
"Hullo,  Mark!" 

"You're  lucky  to  get  out  here  so  soon." 
"Lucky  for  you  fellows  too,  ain't  it?" 
"Oh,  we're  all  right  now.     How's  father?" 
"So-so.     You  look  a  bit  pallid — anything  wrong?" 
"No,  only  a  raving  headache  from  those  infernal  guns. 
You  haven't  a  cigar  to  spare,  have  you?" 
"Masses.     Here,  you  can  have  all  these." 
"Oh,  I  say,  can  you  really?    Oh,  thanks  most  awfully! 
My  kit  has  gone  astray.     You  couldn't  let  me  have  a 
clean  shirt,  could  you,  and  a  tin  of  Keating's,  while  you 
are  about  it?    Oh,  good!    Bring  'em  round  to-night,  I'm 
in  the  patisserie  shop  over  there  with  half  a  chimney. 
'By." 

There  were  many  such  meetings. 


132  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

During  the  death-wrestle  of  October  and  November 
Lawrence  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mark,  for  it  so  fell  out  that 
their  regiments  held  adjacent  strips  of  line  by  Ypres, 
and  in  the  disintegration  and  confusion  of  the  British 
forces  there  came  one  desperate  day  when  the  brothers 
found  themselves  firing  side  by  side  with  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  cooks  and  servants  behind  them.  Then 
the  line  was  shortened,  and  they  were  thrown  apart,  to 
meet  again  on  the  eve  of  La  Neuve  Chapelle.  But  Mark's 
military  career  was  cut  short  at  St.  filoi,  and  it  was  when 
the  roll  was  called  and  Mark  was  missing  that  Law- 
rence for  the  first  time  realized  that  after  all,  in  spite  of 
that  trick  of  saying  "what?"  he  loved  his  brother.  He 
refused  to  believe  that  Mark  was  dead,  he  hoped  that 
Mark  had  been  taken  prisoner.  Two  days  later  he 
learned  from  a  captured  Saxon  that  an  English  officer 
was  lying  wounded  but  still  alive,  half -buried  in  a  shell 
pit  between  the  lines — a  very  tall  man,  a  lieutenant  of  the 
Derbyshires.  The  Saxons  had  tried  to  get  him  in,  but 
the  place  was  cross-swept  by  a  tempest  of  artillery  fire 
and  raked  by  snipers,  and  after  losing  two  men  in  the 
attempt  they  had  given  it  up.  Lawrence  got  his  prisoner 
to  point  out  the  exact  spot;  it  was  close  to  the  German 
lines.  He  had  to  wait  till  dark — such  dark  as  was  left 
by  star-shells  and  pistol-flares ;  and  he  refused  to  take  a 
stretcher-bearer  with  him;  he  would  risk  his  own  iron 
nerve  and  iron  sinews,  but  no  other  man's.  Luck  be- 
friended him,  and  he  came  reeling  back  with  the  wreck 
of  a  human  form  on  his  shoulders  five  minutes  before 
a  false  alarm  of  the  German  gunners  pounded  that  par- 
ticular spot  of  ground  where  Mark  and  two  dead  com- 
rades had  been  lying  into  empurpled  mire. 

It  was  Mark's  luck  that  he  should  be  out  of  the  rest 
of  the  fighting ;  he  was  insensible  when  Lawrence  brought 
him  in,  insensible  (happily  for  him)  in  the  horse  ambu- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  133 

lance  which  covered  the  rutty  roads  behind  the  front, 
insensible  in  the  train  to  the  base  except  for  red  inter- 
vals when  he  listened  to  his  own  moans  and  pitied  the 
poor  beggar  who  was  having  such  a  devil  of  a  time. 
Two  months  he  lay  at  Boulogne,  and  Lawrence,  chafing 
in  the  trenches  while  the  spring  flowers  came  out  in 
war-scarred  cottage  gardens,  thought  every  day  to  hear 
that  his  brother  had  gone  west.  But  Mark  was  very 
strong,  and  the  youth  in  him  locked  fast  hold  on  life;  and 
when  he  went  west  at  length,  late  in  May,  it  was  in  the 
blue  swinging  cot  of  a  hospital  ship. 

Mark  never  forgot  his  home-coming.  Longstone  Edge, 
like  many  another  manor  house  of  less  and  greater  pre- 
tensions, flew  the  Red  Cross  flag  from  the  beginning  of 
the  war;  it  was  transformed  into  a  convalescent  home 
for  wounded  officers,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  little  wire-pull- 
ing Mr.  Sturt  managed  to  get  his  own  son  sent  to  him  as 
soon  as  the  military  hospital  relaxed  its  grip.  It  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  Red  Cross  ambu- 
lance drew  up  before  the  lighted  entry,  and  Mark — 
still  a  stretcher  case,  after  all  those  racking  weeks — 
was  lifted  out  by  the  orderlies.  He  looked  up  and  saw 
his  father's  tall  spare  figure  standing  in  the  porch,  the 
dark  hair  much  grayer  than  it  had  been  a  twelvemonth 
before,  the  shrewd  eyes  surrounded  by  a  network  of 
wrinkles.  Shrewd  as  those  eyes  were,  they  traveled  over 
Mark's  face  without  a  gleam  of  recognition.  It  was  not 
till  Mr.  Sturt  had  watched  the  last  case  out  of  the  van — 
not  till  he  had  felt  the  shock  of  disappointment  and 
anxiety — not  till  he  had  turned  back  into  the  hall  for  a 
despairing  second  survey,  that  he  recognized  Mark's  quiz- 
zical smile.  And  then  Arthur  Sturt  could  not  find  words 
for  a  moment.  Essentially  a  fair-minded  man,  he  had 
always  meant  to  hold  the  scales  level  between  his  two 
sons,  and  yet  when  the  news  came  of  Mark's  almost 


134  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

mortal  wound  his  instant,  mute,  irrepressible  cry  had 
been,  "Thank  God  it  isn't  Lawrence."  He  would  not 
have  let  Lawrence  lie  at  Boulogne  two  months,  nor  yet 
two  weeks,  without  going  over  to  see  him.  And  now  he 
stood  by  Mark's  side — he  a  man  of  seventy,  still  full  of 
health  and  vigor — and  there  lay  Mark,  prostrate,  help- 
less as  a  child.  The  young  man  was  very  much  moved 
by  the  sight  of  his  father's  emotion.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  the  large,  long-fingered  hand  of  a  powerful  man, 
bloodless  now,  and  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly  lift  it. 
"Well,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Sturt  in  his  coolest  tones, 
"glad  to  have  you  home  again.  We'll  soon  get  you  on 
your  legs  now,  what?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mark;  and  added,  unaware  of  the 
turn  his  father's  thoughts  had  taken,  "I  saw  Lawrence 
last  week,  sir.  He's  put  in  for  five  days'  leave,  and  he 
thinks  he'll  get  it."  Then  he  wondered  why  Mr.  Sturt's 
reply  came  so  sharply: 

"Lawrence  isn't  the  point.  It's  you  we  have  to  think 
about  now,  my  son." 

Later,  when  Mark  was  in  bed  in  his  own  room,  Mr. 
Sturt  came  in  with  the  surgeon  and  stood  by  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  while  the  dressings  were  changed. 
Poor  Mark,  for  whom  dressing-time  was  still  a  dark  hour, 
could  have  dispensed  with  the  paternal  observation,  but 
he  had  early  learned  to  regard  his  father  as  the  incalcu- 
lable element  in  an  otherwise  stable  world,  and  he  held 
his  tongue.  "You've  had  a  grueling,"  was  Mr.  Sturt's 
comment  after  the  surgeon  went.  "Feel  bad,  eh?"  He 
wiped  Mark's  wet  forehead  with  his  handkerchief.  He 
had,  and  Lawrence  inherited,  the  last  talent  that  one 
would  have  expected  to  find  in  either  of  them — the  wary, 
patient,  and  delicate  fingers  of  the  born  nurse;  but  he 
was  intolerant  of  the  sick-room  tact  that  conceals  or 
evades. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  135 

Mark  smiled  with  wry  lips.  "Rather  sore,  you  know. 
Did  Trent  say  if  there's  any  chance  of  my  being  fit  to  go 
back?" 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back?" 

"Yes.     'Hate  leaving  my  men :  Lawrence  too." 

"No  chance  of  it,  I'm  afraid." 

"Not  before  the  show's  over?" 

"Not  at  all."  The  nurse  was  signaling  to  Mr.  Sturt 
to  be  silent,  but  he  ignored  her.  "Trent  swears  you'll 
never  sit  a  horse  again."  Mark  set  his  teeth  on  a  cry: 
the  shock  was  very  great.  The  nurse,  scarlet,  fairly 
ordered  Mr.  Sturt  out  of  the  room.  But  he  stooped  over 
Mark  and  touched  the  young  man's  cheek  with  his  lips 
— the  incalculable  element  again.  "Better  know  the  truth 
—eh?" 

"Trent's  a  damned  fool,"  Mark  gasped  out. 

"Think  so?  Better  prove  it,  then,"  said  Arthur  Sturt 
with  his  dry  smile.  "You're  a  Sturt :  you  come  of  tough 
stock.  But,  go  or  stay,  you've  won  your  spurs,  Mark. 
Run  away  for  two  minutes,  my  good  girl.  I've  had  a 
letter  from  your  Colonel.  God  bless  you,  my  boy.  You've 
made  me  very  proud  of  you." 

It  was  Mark's  natural  luck  to  be  invalided  out  of  the 
Service  which  he  loved ;  he  proved  Captain  Trent  a  fool 
in  the  end,  but  it  took  him  two  years  to  do  it,  and  when 
Lawrence  came  home  in  August  on  leave  Mark  was 
barely  able  to  crawl  about  on  crutches.  It  was  Law- 
rence's luck  that  he  went  through  the  whole  campaign 
without  a  scratch.  What  did  seem  strange  to  those  who 
knew  them  both,  and  most  strange  to  those  who  knew 
how  much  luck  has  to  do  with  such  rewards,  was  that  it 
was  Mark,  not  Lawrence,  who  won  the  cross  for  valor. 
What  had  he  done?  Till  Lawrence  told  the  tale,  Mr. 
Sturt  knew  little  more  than  was  conveyed  by  the  bald 


136  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

official  narrative  of  the  War  Office;  indeed  he  hardly 
knew  as  much  as  that,  for  the  incident  dated  from 
crowded  days,  and  Mark  had  not  taken  much  notice  of 
it  at  the  time  and  had  incontinently  forgotten  all  about 
it.  But  Lawrence  Sturt  told  the  story  one  summer  eve- 
ning on  the  lawn  at  Longstone  Edge.  Gallantry  went 
cheap  in  the  autumn  days  from  Mons  to  Ypres,  when 
more  crosses  were  earned,  perhaps,  than  were  given  in 
the  whole  length  of  the  war;  but  there  was  a  bizarre 
coolness  about  Mark's  act  which  tickled  his  father's  fancy. 
Mark  vainly  swore  that  he  had  a  revolver.  "No,  you 
hadn't,  old  chap,"  said  Lawrence,  grinning  down  at  him 
in  an  immense  fraternal  amity.  "Till  you  got  past  the 
wood  you  had  nothing  but  a  cane.  Tom  Wentworth  and 
I  were  watching  from  the  hill  with  field-glasses,  and  Tom 
yelled  to  me,  'Who's  the  feller  with  the  walking-stick?* 
Then  you  slued  the  gun  round  and  I  saw  the  bandage 
on  your  wrist  and  a  large  patch  of  red  clay  on  your 
trousers,  and  I  yelled  back,  'It's  Mark/  and  just  then 
we  were  ordered  forward  in  support  and  poor  old  Tommy 
only  went  about  three  yards  before  he  toppled  over.  I 
saw  him  going  down  on  a  stretcher  when  the  fun  was 
over,  so  I  went  up  to  ask  him  how  he  felt,  and  the  first 
thing  he  said  was,  'You  ought  to  tell  Mark  to  keep  that 
cane  and  cut  his  initials  on  it/  'His  initials?'  I  said. 
'Yes/  said  Tom,  with  a  pallid  grin,  'M.S.V.C.' " 

Mark  smiled.  In  all  humility  and  sincerity  he  recog- 
nized, as  most  men  do,  that  he  had  done  no  more  to  de- 
serve the  distinction  than  nine  out  of  ten  of  his  acquaint- 
ance who  had  not  won  it ;  and  yet  he  did  not  undervalue 
it  or  blind  himself  to  its  significance.  Few  men — very 
few  educated  men — came  out  of  the  war  the  same  as 
when  they  entered  it.  Of  these  few  Lawrence  was  one, 
but  not  Mark;  and  perhaps  even  Lawrence  would  not 
have  escaped  scot  free  but  for  the  charmed  life  he  bore, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  137 

immune  amid  the  hottest  fighting,  though  it  must  be 
owned  that  in  point  of  good  impressions  Lawrence  sick 
or  well  was  a  non-conducting  medium.  "Sir,"  said  Ar- 
thur Sturt  to  his  darling  son  on  one  unfortunate  occa- 
sion when  Lawrence  was  distinctly  less  dear  than  usual, 
"sir,  you  have  not  enough  moral  sense  to  cover  a  three- 
penny bit."  But  Mark,  whose  character,  naturally  re- 
flective, had  taken  longer  to  set  and  harden,  owed  a  great 
deal  to  that  stern  school,  for  it  killed  the  diffidence  in 
him  and  made  him  sure  of  himself.  Gallantries  in  the 
heat  of  action  win  the  conspicuous  honors  of  war ;  Mark 
knew,  Lawrence  guessed,  that  a  much  more  difficult  cour- 
age had  dictated  Mark's  conduct  during  those  two  days 
when  he  lay  wounded  between  the  lines. 

"Did  you  know  where  you  were  ?"  Lawrence  asked  one 
night  when  they  were  alone." 

"Pretty  well,"  said  Mark. 

"Did  you  realize  that  you  were  within  earshot  of  our 
trenches?"  pursued  Lawrence. 

Mark  did  not  answer,  and  Lawrence  dropped  the  sub- 
ject. For  all  his  levity,  it  still  turned  him  sick  to  think 
of  that  night — the  glazed  eyes,  the  death-mask  features, 
the  untended  body  ripped  open  by  the  slash  of  a  bayonet 
from  breast  to  flank  .  .  .  Difficult  to  associate  that  dying 
wreck  with  Mark !  Yet  it  was  Mark ;  and  for  the  first 
twenty- four  hours  Mark  must  have  had  long  periods 
of  consciousness,  when  the  temptation  to  call  out  for 
help,  the  help  of  his  own  side,  must  have  been  hard  to 
subdue.  He  had  subdued  it ;  believing  himself  done  for, 
he  had  lain  without  a  cry,  waiting  for  the  death  which 
came  by  inches,  by  a  slow  and  foul  agony,  sooner  than 
risk  a  comrade's  life  to  save  the  fag-end  of  his  own.  For 
that,  certainly,  far  more  than  for  his  bizarre  adventure 
with  the  machine-gun,  Mark  deserved  his  cross. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  Mark  came  back  to  health  and 


138  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

strength;  it  was  a  miracle  that  he  lived  at  all,  and  he 
would  not  have  done  so  had  he  not  possessed  not  only 
an  iron  constitution  but  also  iron  nerves.  Pain  alone 
kept  him  awake,  and  when  that  eased  off  he  slept  like  a 
child,  long  healing  slumbers  in  which  life  seemed  to  be 
visibly  flowing  back  into  his  broken  frame;  life  mental 
as  well  as  physical,  for  the  Mark  Sturt  who  lay  on  the 
lawn  at  Longstone  Edge  was  saner  and  clearer-visioned 
than  the  madman  who  stormed  the  barricades  of  St. 
filoi.  He  never  consciously  spoke  of  Renee.  That  he 
spoke  of  her  in  delirium  he  knew  because  one  day  Mr. 
Sturt  asked  abruptly,  "Who  is  Renee,  my  boy?"  but, 
though  in  most  ways  Mark  was  frank  with  his  father,  to 
that  question  he  answered  with  gray  unwavering  eyes, 
"I  don't  know,  sir."  There  are  wounds  of  the  spirit 
which  can  bear  no  human  touch,  and  within  this  category 
fell  Mark's  fantastic,  pure,  and  fleeting  romance,  sealed 
immortal  by  its  bloody  end.  Yet  the  lacerated  mind  re- 
covered with  the  lacerated  body,  for  Mark,  disciplined 
by  the  exhaustion  of  pain  when  he  was  too  weak  to  feel 
anger,  learned  to  see  Renee's  death  in  perspective  as  part 
of  the  general  suffering  caused  by  the  war;  and  there 
came  a  day  when  he  confessed  to  his  director,  "Father,  I 
accuse  myself  of  wishing  to  take  revenge  into  my  own 
hands." 

When  Lawrence  took  his  second  week's  leave  Mark 
was  fairly  on  his  legs,  allowed  a  little  mild  golf  and  an 
occasional  day's  shooting,  but  his  military  career  was  at 
an  end,  for  the  army  surgeons  had  certified  that  he  would 
never  cross  a  horse  again.  By  the  time  Lawrence  came 
home  for  good,  Mark  had  ridden  fifteen  miles  in  a  morn- 
ing. But  he  was  still  leading  an  invalid  life  at  Longstone 
Edge,  dragooned  by  Mr.  Sturt,  whose  blunt  humorous 
tyranny  stood  on  guard  over  Mark's  chafing  imprudence. 
"Good  heavens,  Mark,"  cried  Lawrence,  when  Mark  was 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  139 

ordered  to  a  sofa  the  first  evening,  "I  wouldn't  be  kept 
in  leading  strings  if  I  were  you!"  "Aye,  that's  the  line 
to  take,"  said  the  sardonic  Arthur  Sturt.  "You  always 
were  a  sensible  fellow,  Lawrence."  And  Lawrence  shut 
up  under  that  cold  blue  stare.  He  was  immensely  amused 
and  pleased  to  find  himself  snubbed  in  Mark's  favor. 

A  month  later  Mr.  Sturt  sickened  and  died,  after  a 
ten  days'  illness ;  died,  holding  the  hands  of  his  tall  sons, 
and  smiling  with  easy  reassurance  into  Lawrence's  eyes. 
The  strings  thus  broken,  it  could  be  seen  how  well  they 
had  done  their  work,  for  Mark,  whom  the  medical  world 
had  sentenced  to  a  life  of  dependence,  at  once  came 
forward  and  took  command  of  all  business  arrangements. 
Lawrence,  the  brilliant  and  the  hardy,  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room  and  wept.  He  was,  in  fact,  perfectly  useless; 
he  sobbed  like  a  child  at  the  funeral,  and  left  Mark  to 
do  the  honors  to  a  concourse  of  distinguished  mourning 
guests.  "Just  like  Lawrence!"  said  Mark  to  himself  by 
the  graveside ;  and  as  he  drew  his  brother's  hand  through 
his  own  arm  he  realized,  as  Lawrence  had  realized  after 
St.  filoi,  that  in  spite  of  mutual  irritation  and  impatience 
the  link  of  birth  held  fast.  To  the  end  of  the  chapter 
Lawrence  would  go  on  thinking  Mark  slow  and  occa- 
sionally dense,  while  Mark  was  aware  of  a  vein  of  emo- 
tional weakness  in  Lawrence,  but  their  qualities  were 
rather  complementary  than  hostile,  and  the  relation  be- 
tween them  was  rooted  in  mutual  respect. 

Mr.  Sturt's  will  came  as  a  surprise  to  both  his  chil- 
dren. That  Longstone  Edge  would  go  to  Lawrence  they 
had  always  known,  and  they  had  taken  for  granted  that 
the  business  and  the  bulk  of  the  money  would  go  with 
it.  But  Mr.  Sturt  had  other  views.  He  explained  in  a 
prefatory  note  that  the  English  law  of  primogeniture  had 
always  seemed  to  him  less  satisfactory  than  the  French 
system  of  equal  division;  and  he  left  Gatton  and  all  its 


140  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

revenues  unconditionally  to  his  younger  son,  "because 
he  may  possibly  develop  business  aptitudes,  whereas  my 
son  Lawrence  never  will."  Mark's  impulse  was  again 
to  protest;  but  when  they  came  to  look  into  matters  he 
grew  resigned.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  money  going; 
Mr.  Sturt  had  made  large  gains,  and  his  investments  had 
turned  out  well.  He  was  one  of  the  first  men  to  back  the 
fortunes  of  the  aeroplane,  and  the  big  sums  put  into  a 
popular  Flying  School  had  proved  a  gold-mine.  Gatton 
and  all  its  future  profits  apart,  there  was  enough  left  to 
make  Lawrence  a  very  rich  man,  richer  than  Mark ;  and 
besides  Lawrence  did  not  want  Gatton,  and  frankly 
owned  that  if  it  had  come  into  his  hands  he  would  have 
sold  it  to  a  syndicate.  Mark  did  not  precisely  want  Gat- 
ton either — he  had  had  no  business  training,  and  he  liked 
an  active  life.  But  facts  spoke  with  a  loud  voice  to 
Mark's  ear,  and  there  was  no  doubt  about  it  that  Gatton 
was  a  big  fact.  He  took  up  the  work  where  Arthur  Sturt 
had  dropped  it,  and  for  the  next  four  or  five  years  he 
had  little  leisure  to  repine. 

When  peace  was  signed,  Lawrence  resigned  his  com- 
mission, out  of  sheer  boredom.  He  had  enjoyed  the 
war ;  there  were  few  who  could  say  as  much.  It  had  left 
him  with  a  thirst  for  adventure  which  life  in  barracks 
could  not  satisfy.  He  had  a  passion  for  sport  and  ex- 
ploration, and  he  was  rich  enough  to  indulge  it.  At  first 
Mark  was  too  busy  at  Gatton  to  see  more  of  his  brother 
than  before  the  war,  but  when  things  got  into  train  he 
formed  the  habit  of  accompanying  Lawrence  on  his  long 
trips  to  shoot  strange  beasts  and  climb  strange  peaks  in 
the  less  habitable  districts  of  the  globe.  When  the  wan- 
derers returned  their  paths  diverged — Lawrence  took  up 
his  quarters  in  town,  while  Mark  went  back  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Gatton.  Years  passed  on,  youth  ripened  into  full 
manhood;  presently  the  House  of  Commons  beckoned, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  141 

and  Mark,  almost  before  he  knew  what  was  happening, 
found  himself  member  for  his  own  division  of  the  county. 
Gatton  had  brought  him  in,  to  his  own  surprise,  with  ac- 
clamation.   It  was  all  hard  work,  collar  work,  and  Mark 
gloried  in  it.     He  liked  labor  for  its  own  sake,  and  he 
forgot  that  he  had  ever  been  a  soldier.    He  liked  London 
too,  and  the  society  which  swiftly  opened  to  the  young 
Northern  member,   a  society  which   was  ready  to  like 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  beautiful  mother  and  his  brilliant 
brother,  not  to  speak  of  Sturt  and  Saltau  relatives  in  all 
the  Services.     Was  he  ambitious?     He  had  hardly  time 
for  it.     His  hands  were  always  full  of  work,  or  full  of 
play.    When  Parliament  was  up,  there  were  markhor  to 
be  shot  above  Kashmir;  and  behind  all  else  there  was 
always  Gatton  with  its  swarming  operatives,   its  com- 
plexities of  procedure,  its  pressure  of  conflicting  claims. 
Mark  did  not  run  Gatton  precisely  on  his  father's  lines. 
He  kept  it  going  for  a  year  or  two  on  the  old  footing, 
till  he  had  mastered  the  working  of  the  machine,  and 
then  having  called  together  his  lieutenants  he  told  them 
that  he  was  going  to  make  a  change.     He  had  faith  in 
an  experiment  which  he  was  rich  enough  to  carry  out. 
He  meant  to  run  Gatton  on  a  profit-sharing  basis.    There 
was   opposition   of   course,   but    Mark   had   not    fought 
through  the  Retreat  for  nothing;  he  knew  his  own  mind 
and  carried  it  through,  paying  no  more  attention  to  old 
Holmes,  who  prophesied  the  Bankruptcy  Court,  than  to 
Lawrence,  who  jeered  at  him  for  a  Socialist.     He  was 
vindicated  by  the  issue,   for,  in  the  first  place,  Gatton 
on  the  new  lines  continued  to  pay  as  well  as  Gatton  on 
the  old,  and  in  the  second  he  focused  the  attention  of 
his  political  neighbors  on  his  doings ;  ambitious  or  not, 
this  had  formed  no  part  of  his  plan,  and  he  disliked  it 
at  first,  but  resigned  himself  to  it  because  it  was  a  fact, 
and  ended  by  growing  interested  in  his  own  position.    He 


142  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

rarely  thought  about  himself,  but  it  was  plain  that  a  man 
of  five  and  thirty,  in  control  of  a  business  as  big  as  Gat- 
ton,  and  possessed  of  a  competent  fortune  and  a  safe 
seat  in  the  House,  was  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with. 

On  his  entry  into  public  life  Mark  spoke  little  and 
modestly,  but  when  problems  came  up  for  discussion  in 
which  he  was  directly  interested — problems  academic  to 
three-fourths  of  the  Hotjse,  but  to  him  the  staple  food 
of  his  most  anxious  thought — he  began  to  make  his  voice 
heard,  and  it  was  a  telling  voice.  Mark  had  by  nature 
the  "Parliamentary  manner,"  so  hard  to  acquire.  He 
was  clear,  easy,  humorous,  pleasantly  respectful  to  the 
chiefs  on  either  side,  but  pleasantly  tenacious  of  his  own 
views.  He  was  not  visibly  nervous,  or  not  more  nervous 
than  the  House  likes  a  new  hand  to  be.  As  he  gained 
a  firmer  foothold,  he  developed  an  unexpected  facility 
in  debate.  Lawrence,  who  did  not  admire  his  brother's 
usual  oratorical  style,  changed  his  mind  one  night  when 
he  strolled  into  the  Gallery  by  chance  in  time  for  a 
breeze.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Mark's  position  that  the 
Conservatives  called  him  a  Fabian  and  the  Socialists 
called  him  a  Tory;  it  was  the  Labor  men  who  were  at 
him  that  night,  and  the  skill  and  power  of  Mark's  defense 
gave  Lawrence  great  delight.  As  they  drank  their  coffee 
together  on  the  Terrace,  and  Mark  accepted  congratula- 
tions from  authoritative  quarters,  the  conviction  came 
on  Lawrence  that  his  brother  was  on  his  way  to  a  posi- 
tion in  the  great  world — the  world  which  acts  and  gov- 
erns, as  distinct  from  the  world  which  watches  and  talks. 

Even  a  Lawrence  Sturt  has  his  periods  of  reflection, 
and  for  ten  minutes,  while  Mark  stood  apart  talking  to 
the  Senior  Whip,  Lawrence  lay  back  in  his  chair  over- 
looking the  dark,  full-flowing  river  and  reviewed  the 
two  lives,  linked  in  the  mystery  of  birth,  passing  on  side 
by  side  from  infancy  to  manhood.  Or  should  one  say  to 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  143 

middle  age?  There  was  a  touch  of  its  gravity  in  Mark, 
bending  his  courteous  head  to  catch  the  low  tones  of 
Hubert  Grayson-Drew.  Already  custom  lay  on  him 

with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life. 

Behind  him  Mons  and  Ypres  and  St.  filoi,  his  wrecked 
soldier's  career,  long  months  on  the  brink  of  death,  then 
Gatton,  now  Westminster  .  .  .  But  Lawrence  had  es- 
caped untouched ;  at  thirty-five  he  was  as  handsome  and 
as  irresponsible  as  he  had  been  at  five  and  twenty  .  .  . 
His  was  a  generous  nature,  incapable  of  jealousy,  but 
he  had  no  illusions. 

Grayson-Drew  passed  on,  and  Mark  sat  down  again. 
His  features  expressed  no  elation,  but  some  quiet  confi- 
dence. He  glanced  at  his  brother,  whose  interests  were 
notoriously  non-political,  with  an  apologetic  smile. 
"Bored  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Not  I,"  said  Lawrence.  "Je  we  dis  mes  verites,  mon 
bon." 

This  was  in  the  spring  session  before  Mark  met  in 
with  Maisie  Archdale. 


CHAPTER   IX 

"In  her  strong  toil  of  grace." 

MARK  did  not  go  to  Colorado.  He  went  to  Gatton ; 
not  to  Longstone  Edge,  though  it  was  always  at 
his  service,  but  to  Jack  Bennet's  bachelor  villa  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  works ;  and  for  the  next  ten  days 
an  accumulation  of  business  drove  Maisie  out  of  his 
head,  for  except  when  he  snatched  an  hour  off  to  share 
Bennet's  bread  and  cheese  lunch,  or  to  run  to  earth  an 
evasive  grumbler,  he  was  in  his  office  from  nine  a.  m.  to 
eleven  p.  m.,  sifting  papers,  checking  accounts,  and  in- 
terviewing an  endless  stream  of  callers.  Mark  hated 
officials.  He  could  not  now  say,  as  Arthur  Sturt  had 
said  once,  that  he  knew  every  "hand"  in  the  works  by 
name,  but  he  was  not  far  off  it,  and  it  was  still  his  rule 
that  every  man  and  boy  had  the  right  of  personal  appeal ; 
and  here  his  training  as  a  company  officer  stood  him  in 
good  stead,  for  he  could  get  on  terms  with  any  type. 
Gatton  was  no  industrial  paradise — grievances  were  al- 
ways cropping  up ;  but  it  was  indisputable  that  every 
grievance  taken  before  Mark's  tribunal  would  be  inves- 
tigated to  the  bottom,  and  despite  the  enormous  power 
of  class  prejudice,  and  the  sleepless  grudge  which  the 
English  proletariat  bear  against  their  capitalist  employ- 
ers, Gatton  had  a  queer  faith  in  "young  Sturt's"  justice. 
This  the  men  had  learned,  that  if  two  points  came  up  for 
settlement  Mark  was  as  likely  as  not  to  give  the  lesser 
for  and  the  greater  against  himself. 
But  when  the  pressure  of  work  relaxed  Mark  found 

144 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  145 

himself  very  tired.  Bennet,  coming  in  late  one  evening 
from  a  dinner  which  Mark  had  declined,  discovered  his 
chief  asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  was  struck,  as  Lawrence 
had  been,  by  the  change  in  him.  Mark  woke  up  heavy- 
eyed,  and  Bennet,  whose  relations  with  him  out  of  office 
hours  were  unaltered  from  Stonyhurst  days,  opened  fire 
from  the  hearth-rug.  "I  say,  aren't  you  well?  You 
look  fagged  to  death." 

"Headache,"  said  Mark  briefly. 

"It  strikes  me  you  have  too  many  headaches.  You're 
getting  as  gray  as  a  badger,  Mark." 

"Gray,  am  I  ?"  said  Mark,  rather  startled.  He  got  up 
to  look  at  himself  in  the  glass  overmantel  (Bennet's  fur- 
niture, like  Bennet's  clothes,  was  in  shop  taste,  not  his 
own).  "So  I  am.  And  look  at  you  with  not  a  hair 
turned  in  your  brown  wig !  I  shall  be  going  bald  next,  I 
suppose.  I  must  look  out  for  a  hair  restorer.  I  do  get 
the  most  infernal  heads,  certainly."  He  leaned  his  fore- 
head on  his  hand. 

"Why  not  wire  Captain  Sturt  that  you'll  join  him 
after  all?" 

Mark  involuntarily  shook  his  head,  and  then  took  it 
between  his  hands  with  a  groan.  "Oh,  you  little  devils! 
I  bar  croquet  balls  trundling  to  and  fro  between  one's 
eyes,  there  isn't  room  for  them.  No,  I  can't  go  to  Amer- 
ica; I  can't  go  so  far  out  of  the  way.  Besides,  what  do 
I  want  of  a  holiday?  I've  done  no  work  since  Easter. 
I  was  fit  enough  three  weeks  ago.  I  am  fit  now,  if  you 
come  to  that." 

"  'Expect  you  ought  to  have  lain  up  a  few  days  with 
that  arm  of  yours." 

"Gone  to  bed!     I  think  I  see  myself." 

"Well,  you  might  do  worse,  old  man,"  said  Bennet. 
"You  look  thoroughly  run  down.  Shan't  you  go  North 
for  the  twelfth?  I  would  if  I  were  you.  Off  your  sleep, 


146  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

aren't  you?  I  heard  you  walking  up  and  down  last 
night."  He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Mark's  shoul- 
der. To  his  astonishment  it  was  impatiently  shaken  off. 

"My  health  isn't  on  the  books  of  the  firm,  thanks." 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  beg  yours,  Jack." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Bennet  stiffly.  "Sorry  I  forgot  my- 
self. I  won't  again."  He  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Bennet  was  a  short-tempered  man  of  dour  Northern 
pride,  and  he  had  taken  Mark's  little  fit  of  irritation  for 
an  official  snub.  Twenty  years  earlier  Mark  would  have 
dashed  after  him  and  abased  himself,  but  he  could  not 
do  it  now ;  the  generous  boyish  impulse  was  as  strong  as 
ever,  but  stronger  were  the  frost  of  custom  and  the  shy- 
ness of  middle  age.  Bennet  was  still  stiff  when  they  met 
at  breakfast,  and  ten  times  it  was  on  the  tip  of  Mark's 
tongue  to  say,  "Jack,  after  all  these  years,  don't  you 
know  me  better?"  and  yet  he  could  not  say  it.  How 
many  of  us  are  there  who  carry  to  our  life's  end  the 
smart  of  some  such  trivial  misunderstanding?  But  it 
was  after  this  incident  that  Mark  settled  to  go  abroad. 
Irritable  nerves  are  a  dangerous  luxury  for  men  who 
keep  the  warm  heart  of  twenty  under  the  inelastic  man- 
ners of  thirty-five ;  moreover  Mark,  whom  Lawrence 
called  a  sentimental  Englishman,  saw  a  chance  of  soft- 
ening Bennet  by  an  indirect  apology — "I'm  going  to 
follow  your  advice  and  take  a  holiday.  I  was  feeling 
rotten  last  night." 

It  was  neither  Gatton  nor  his  own  health  that  made 
Mark  refuse  to  go  to  Colorado,  but  the  feeling  that  he 
ought  not  to  be  out  of  reach  of  his  wife.  Mark  had  not 
seen  Maisie  since  they  parted  on  the  Ushant  platform. 
Their  last  night  of  storm  remained  fixed  in  his  mind 
as  having  set  a  seal  of  tragedy  on  the  checkered  experi- 
ences of  the  week.  How  slowly  the  hours  had  passed 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  147 

as  he  sat  by  the  dying  fire  and  listened  to  the  periodical 
chime  of  Maisie's  clock  and  the  ceaseless  droning  shriek 
of  the  wind !  Why  he  did  not  yield  was  and  remained 
to  him  a  mystery ;  it  was  not  from  generosity,  for  every 
generous  instinct  urged  him  to  yield.  Mark  had  simply 
obeyed  one  of  those  edicts  of  the  moral  law  which  en- 
force themselves,  with  a  sterner  stringency  than  that  of 
reason,  on  man's  trembling  heart  and  brain. 

Towards  morning,  when  dawn  came  late  and  sullen, 
the  wind  lulled,  and  the  inner  conflict  wore  itself  out 
about  the  same  time,  and  Mark  dropped  to  sleep  in  his 
chair.  But  then  came  the  dreary  waking,  when  he  was 
roused  by  her  "Let  me  out,  Mark" :  and  he  had  to  go 
and  unlock  the  door  like  a  jailer  for  her  to  pass  out. 
How  worn  she  had  looked,  she  too,  how  white  and 
fagged,  as  she  went  about  her  morning  duties !  She  had 
not  slept,  perhaps,  any  more  than  he.  She  was  too  proud, 
and  Mark  too  nervous,  to  reopen  the  night's  broken  ex- 
planations, and  they  talked  lightly  like  strangers,  at  break- 
fast, in  the  dogcart,  on  the  platform,  till  Maisie's  train 
came  in. 

"Good-by,  Mark." 

"Good-by,  my  dear.  You  know  where  to  find  me  if 
you  want  me." 

"In  Colorado  ?    That  is  rather  a  long  way  off." 

"I  am'  not  going  to  Colorado.  My  London  address 
will  always  get  me  in  twenty-four  hours." 

Mark  fancied  she  was  glad,  but  there  was  no  time  to 
say  any  more,  and  the  train  carried  her  away  out  of  his 
life,  it  might  have  been  forever.  What  a  parting!  She 
did  not  understand,  and  Mark  was  incapable  of  further 
explanation ;  it  was  one  of  his  venomed  torments  that 
he  had  left  her  after  all  in  the  dark.  What  did  she  think 
of  him?  What  does  a  woman  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
think  of  a  man's  virtue?  Mark  winced  when  he  tried  to 


148  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

estimate  his  wife's  opinion  of  him.  A  saint  may  turti 
his  back  on  temptation;  but  Mark  Sturt  did  not  enjoy 
the  prerogatives  of  a  saint.  Mere  men  of  the  world  have 
no  title  to  pretend  to  the  insolences  of  virtue.  It  was 
nothing  short  of  an  insult  for  a  man  of  his  class  to  re- 
fuse what  a  woman  of  the  same  class  offered.  And  he 
was  dumb :  he  could  not  say,  "I  would  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  take  you,  but  there  is  a  fiery  sword  between 
us  which  I  dare  not  pass."  The  worst  of  it  was  that 
Maisie  was  no  believer  in  fiery  swords. 

Mark  went  to  Normandy.  He  left  Henham  in  charge 
of  the  flat ;  he  was  tired  of  the  routine  of  expensive  Euro- 
pean travel,  and  he  meant  to  go  to  inns  where  the  ideal 
valet  could  not  be  expected  to  put  up.  He  had  a  kindly 
memory  of  certain  small  villages  on  the  Seine  which  he 
had  visited  once  with  Lawrence  as  a  schoolboy  on  a 
holiday,  and  he  thought  he  would  try  whether  by  going 
back  to  them  he  could  recapture  something  of  the  school- 
boy's happy  inexacting  mood.  He  fetched  up  at  last  ten 
miles  below  Rouen  in  the  little  old-fashioned  town  of 
Duclair,  found  a  room  for  himself  at  a  tavern  on  the 
river,  and  strolled  through  the  market — it  was  a  Mon- 
day morning — to  fetch  his  letters  from  the  bureau  de 
poste  and  to  buy  six  sous'  worth  of  Reines-Claude,  their 
melting  greenness  scorched  to  gold  and  purple  where  the 
sun  had  scarred  them  through  the  leaves.  Then  he  came 
back  to  the  terrasse  beside  the  shining  Seine  and  settled 
down  to  a  pipe  and  a  consommation  with  something 
nearer  to  enjoyment  than  a  sheaf  of  correspondence  com- 
monly inspires  in  a  busy  man.  There  was  the  usual  drift 
of  business  letters,  charitable  appeals,  and  cards  of  in- 
vitation ;  out  of  them  he  weeded  three  or  four  envelopes 
of  a  more  private  and  promising  aspect. 

The  first  was  from  Lawrence,  dated  from  "s.s.  Tran- 
sylvania, Liverpool  Docks" ;  Lawrence  wrote  on  the  point 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  149 

of  starting,  and  with  the  usual  grievance;  rarely  had 
Mark  received  a  letter  from  his  brother  which  did  not 
air  a  grievance.  This  time  Lawrence  was  annoyed  be- 
cause after  ten  days'  delay  he  had  not  found  any  one  to 
take  Mark's  place :  "you  silly  ass,"  he  wrote,  "but  I  am 
avenged,  because  long  before  you  get  this  you  will  be 
sick  to  death  of  French  cookery  and  wishing  you  had 
not  been  a  silly  ass."  Crowded  into  a  postscript  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sheet,  Mark  read  news  which  did,  it  must 
be  confessed,  interest  him  faintly:  "I  ran  up  against 
Mrs.  Essenden  again  before  I  left  and  she  had  another 
shot  at  your  address.  I  foiled  her.  Effectively.  But 
she's  a  pretty  woman."  Mark  whistled  a  pensive  little 
Spanish  tune  and  thought,  with  a  momentary  touch  of 
sentiment,  what  a  pretty  woman  Jenny  Essenden  had 
been  in  Freddy  Field's  days,  and  at  that  moment  the 
idea  crossed  his  mind,  coming  out  of  nowhere,  that  in 
Jenny  Essenden's  case  there  would  have  been  no  flaming 
sword.  He  could  not  have  said  why,  unless  it  were  that 
Jenny  was  not  worth  any  such  heavenly  attentions. 

The  next  letter  was  from  Father  de  Trafford,  and  ran 
in  a  very  different  strain.  The  priest  wrote,  with  a  gay 
confidence  that  disarmed  indifference,  freely  about  the 
work  that  was  being  done  with  Mark's  check;  he  spoke 
of  his  meeting  with  Lawrence,  "whose  character  fasci- 
nates me.  I  sometimes  wonder  what  is  going  to  become 
of  him.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  as  likely  as  not  to  end 
in  a  monk's  cell,  but  do  not,  my  dear  Mark,  tell  him  I 
said  so.  The  likeness  between  you  two  is  as  perplexing 
to  a  poor  student  of  human  nature  as  the  unlikeness." 
Mark  thought  of  what  Lawrence  himself  had  said,  but 
did  not,  as  most  men  would  hare  done,  conclude  that 
Lawrence  had  said  it  also  to  de  Trafford;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  had  so  rarely  found  the  priest's  penetration  at 
fault  that  he  sat  for  five  minutes  trying  to  adapt  his 


150  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

own  knowledge  of  his  brother  to  this  novel  point  of  view. 
But  he  could  not  see  Lawrence  in  the  habit  of  a  Carthu- 
sian. 

The  next  letter  he  took  up  was  a  long  intimate  screed 
from  Mrs.  Ferrier,  full  of  political  news.  Charles  Fer- 
rier  represented  his  county  with  credit  and  indeed  with 
intermittent  distinction,  but  scandal  said  that  his  wife  got 
up  his  speeches  for  him.  At  all  events  she  was  a  keen 
little  politician,  and  her  letter  was  in  some  ways  the  most 
interesting  of  the  three,  because  it  brought  Mark  into 
touch  with  London  life  again.  An  important  bill  was 
coming  on  in  the  spring  session,  and  Dodo  wrote  with 
acid  humor  of  the  intrigues  behind  the  Front  Benches. 
"I  am  glad  you  are  not  gone  to  Colorado,"  she  said. 
"That  is  all  very  well  for  Lawrence,  who  is  not  and 
never  will  be  an  homrne  serieux" — how  about  Father  de 
Trafford  and  the  cell? — "but  for  a  man  like  you  now- 
adays it  really  does  not  pay.  Will  you  come  to  us  for 
Christmas  ?  We  have  Mr.  Mallinson  coming,  whom  you 
said  once  you  would  like  to  get  to  know  personally,  and 
I  am  sure  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  did.  He  and 
you  are  much  of  the  same  stamp  and  the  same  tradi- 
tion. And  they  want  new  blood ;  and  they  want — want 
in  both  senses — some  one  trustworthy.  Freville  is  their 
ablest  among  the  younger  men,  and  he  has  no  money,  and 
I  don't  think  he's  true  to  his  salt;  anyhow  he  drops  so 
much  on  the  turf  that  Mr.  Mallinson  is  afraid  of  him. 
My  own  dear  boy  will  never  of  course  run  steady  in  har- 
ness; his  latest  freak  was  to  vote  with  the  labor  men  on 
a  snatched  amendment  one  night  when  there  were  not 
fifty  people  in  the  house,  and  the  faddists  all  but  upset 
the  applecart.  When  they  reviled  him  he  said  he  was 
very  sorry  but  it  happened  to  be  a  point  of  principle. 
Principle !  As  Mr.  Grayson-Drew  said  to  me  afterwards, 
'What  can  you  do  with  a  man  who  is  capable  of  upsetting 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  151 

the  Government  on  a  point  of  principle?'  I  told  Mr. 
G.-D.  that  I  washed  my  hands  of  him,  and  he  said 
Charles  was  turning  his  hair  gray.  But  you,  old  Mark, 
would  never  turn  a  Whip's  hair  gray." 

"No,  my  own  instead,"  Mark  thought  ruefully.  He 
laid  the  letter  on  his  knee  and  sat  looking  far  out  over 
the  Seine,  whose  dark  glossy  tide  washed  softly  among 
the  reeds  and  loosestrife  along  the  cobbled  shore.  South- 
wards lay  the  town,  eastwards  upstream  stretched  a  great 
bend  of  river,  going  away  into  the  distance  round  a 
headland  of  rock  and  woody  chalk  bluffs  white  over  the 
dark  leaves  of  August.  Beating  up  against  the  current, 
a  trading  vessel  from  the  Piraeus  went  by  to  Rouen,  her 
funnel  banded  with  the  black  and  white  key-pattern  orna- 
ment of  old  Greece,  the  waves  of  her  wake  slapping 
lazily  along  stone  pier  or  grassy  bank.  It  was  all  fresh 
and  peaceful  in  the  pale  sunlight;  and  from  the  Place 
came  the  human  stir  of  the  market  and  the  barking  of 
dogs  and  the  tolling  of  church  bells,  levity  and  piety 
tempered  together  into  the  pleasantly  skeptical  bonhomie 
of  rural  France.  Mark's  wedding  night  under  the  stars 
seemed  very  far  away. 

He  returned  to  Dodo's  letter.  "It  is  dull  here  till  the 
shooting  begins.  So  far  no  one  else  has  turned  up  except 
Harry  Forester  and  Miss  Archdale,  who  came  on  to- 
gether from  the  Beningfields.  I  wonder  whether  they 
will  make  it  up  after  all?  I  half  hope  they  will,  for  I 
like  her  very  much,  and  she  seems  to  me  to  be  very  un- 
happy. Perhaps  that  is  partly  why  I  like  her.  I  used 
to  think  one  would  never  get  far  with  her  because  she 
was  too  prosperous  to  want  a  friend,  but  now  I  think 
she  is  not  a  bit  happy,  and  after  all  there  are  not  many 
men  as  lovable  as  Harry  Forester.  Every  one  says  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  the  devil  they  do !"  said  Mark.  He  crushed  the 
unfinished  sheet  into  his  pocket;  he  could  not  stand  any 


152  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

more  of  Dodo's  gossip  just  then.  But  the  peace  of  the 
morning  was  scattered,  and  he  caught  up  his  hat  and 
stick  and  prepared  to  go  for  a  walk — and  the  first  per- 
son he  saw  when  he  stepped  out  into  the  cobbled  street 
was  Jenny  Essenden. 

She  was  lying  back  at  ease  in  a  big  gray  car,  her 
silk-coated  toy  Yorkshire  terrier  perched  on  her  knee, 
her  small  French  hat  and  flying  veil  tipped  at  a  rakish 
angle  over  her  small  head.  Jenny  Essenden  was  a  very 
pretty  woman.  She  was  definitely  out  of  the  world ;  but 
she  held  a  record  of  her  own.  She  was  not  poor,  and 
had  never  been  poor  as  far  back  as  her  history  was  com- 
mon knowledge.  She  was  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking — 
still  less  for  a  price.  Poor  Field,  who  died  at  Nice,  was 
not  a  rich  man,  but  Jenny  had  stayed  by  him  faithfully 
to  the  bitter  end,  and  since  his  death  rumor  connected 
her  name  with  no  other.  It  would  be  going  too  far  per- 
haps to  say  that  she  had  principles,  but  at  all  events  she 
had  tastes,  which  served  to  some  extent  the  same  pur- 
pose. She  had  a  graceful  manner  too,  a  manner  which 
easily  passed  the  searching  observation  of  servants  and 
hotel  proprietors.  The  host  of  Mark's  inn  was  standing 
bareheaded  by  the  door  of  the  car,  evidently  unaware 
of  any  peculiarity  in  Mrs.  Essenden's  position,  and  she 
was  speaking  to  him  with  her  pretty  infantine  gracious- 
ness — but  she  broke  off  when  she  caught  sight  of  Mark. 
"Mr.  Sturt !  How  nice  to  see  somebody  one  knows ! 
Are  }seu  staying  here?" 

"Yes,  for  a  day  or  two.    Are  you?" 

"No,  indeed,  I'm  in  my  own  chateau.  What  can  you 
be  doing  in  a  tiny  place  like  this — penance  for  your 
sins?"  Mark  smiled,  but  did  not  answer;  he  had  early 
decided  that  there  is  far  less  necessity  for  answering 
questions  than  people  commonly  suppose.  "I  heard  you 
were  going  to  Colorado." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  153 

"So  I  was ;  but  I  didn't  go.  I  think  my  brother  Law- 
rence must  have  poured  out  that  grievance  to  you  when 
you  met  him  in  town." 

Mrs.  Essenden  never  opened  a  book  and  could  not 
write  a  note  without  a  slip  in  spelling,  but  beyond  these 
educational  limits  she  was  as  little  of  a  fool  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  be.  She  met  Mark's  eyes  and  laughed  out  mer- 
rily. "He  did  tell  me  that,  and  another  friend  of  yours 
told  me  that  you  were  going  to  Normandy.  Does  it  seem 
shameless  of  me  to  run  you  down  like  this  when  you 
want  to  get  away  by  yourself?  But  it  really  is  an  acci- 
dent. I  can't  help  it  if  Duclair  is  only  a  few  miles  from 
my  dear  chateau,  can  I?" 

"Who  told  you  I  was  going  to  Duclair?" 
"That  very  delightful  person,  Father  de  Trafford." 
Mark  involuntarily  opened  his  eyes.     "I  didn't  know 
you  knew  him." 

"Saints  and  sinners  always  meet,"  said  Jenny.    "Well, 
now,  tell  me  what  you  were  going  to  do  before  you  met 
me.     Tweeds  and  a  straw  hat,  let  me  see:  had  you  any 
excitement  on?    I  can't  guess." 
"I  was  going  for  a  walk." 

Her  face  of  unaffected  dismay  made  Mark  laugh  again. 
"A  walk?  You  like  walking?  Mon  Dieu!  Drive  with 
me  instead.  I  don't  hesitate,  now,  to  press  you,  because 
no  one  could  possibly  like  walking  better." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mark  with  a  touch  of  for- 
mality. "But  won't  you  lunch  with  me  to-day?  I  had 
hoped  you  would  give  me  that  pleasure." 

"At  that  little  tavern?  No,  my  friend;  I  would  do 
much  to  give  you  pleasure,  but  there  are  limits  to  my 
benevolence.  Come,  get  in;  see,  Fifi  is  making  a  pretty 
face  at  you — you  can't  refuse  a  lady." 

Mark  got  im,  feeling  and  indeed  looking  a  little  re- 
signed; but  his  resignation  was  cheerful  compared  with 


154  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

that  of  Monsieur  Vedie,  who  had  followed  a  good  deal 
of  the  conversation,  and  had  certainly  not  missed  the 
significance  of  the  wave  of  the  hand  with  which  Jenny 
flicked  his  tavern  from  her  horizon.  Such  were  Jenny's 
courtesies  all  too  often,  sweet  in  the  mouth  but  leaving 
an  after-taste  of  bitterness.  The  car  shot  away,  and 
Monsieur  Vedie  retired  to  console  himself  with  a  petit 
verre;  Jenny  lay  back  on  her  cushions,  and  Mark,  taking 
an  easy  attitude  by  her  side,  allowed  himself  to  be 
amused.  After  all,  Lawrence  was  right — Mrs.  Essenden 
was  a  very  pretty  woman.  With  the  ingratitude  of  men, 
Mark  was  the  more  ready  to  pick  holes  in  her  prettiness 
because  she  had  followed  him  to  France;  but  how  few 
there  were  to  pick !  How  like  a  roseleaf  was  the  texture 
of  her  rounded  cheek!  and  how  bright  her  eyes  were, 
under  the  shadow  of  that  rakish  little  hat! 

The  car  raced  on  through  the  warm  and  sunny  coun- 
tryside, and  Mark  unbent  more  and  more.  After  all  it 
would  have  been  mere  folly  to  play  the  saint  with  Jenny, 
who,  poor  dear,  would  have  languished  under  moral 
criticism  like  a  flower  bewildered  in  an  east  wind.  They 
lunched  together  on  a  shining  balcony  in  Caudebec, 
fetched  a  wide  circle,  and  returned  a  little  before  sunset 
to  Jenny's  chateau,  which  Mark  saw  for  the  first  time 
dark  against  the  golden  evening  light.  A  long  valley 
winding  between  forested  heights ;  a  stream,  the  clear 
Clerettes,  flowing  down  to  the  Seine  through  meadows 
gray  after  hay-harvest,  where  high-arched  elms,  grouped 
as  Claude  le  Lorrain  would  have  grouped  them,  extended 
their  long  shadows  with  the  penciled  effectiveness  of  art ; 
gates  of  lace-like  ironwork  under  a  covert  of  beechwood  ; 
and  then  the  strange  broken  facade  of  Geres  itself,  me- 
dieval manor  raised  on  wreck  of  Norman  fortress,  glow- 
ing like  a  jewel  in  rose-red  plaster  and  black  timber  and 
stone  bastion,  among  rose-gardens  and  firwoods,  under 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  155 

the  sunset  gold.  Mark  fell  silent  as  the  car  turned  in 
under  the  poplar  avenue.  In  him  as  in  Lawrence,  though 
neglected  and  repressed,  there  ran  a  pretty  strong  vein  of 
the  passion  for  beauty,  and  this  old  French  chateau,  dim 
with  ghosts  and  perfumed  of  rose-leaves,  appealed  to 
him  with  a  heady  melancholy,  a  refined  and  sensuous 
charm.  Subtle  Jenny  saw  it  and  sank  her  voice.  "Isn't 
it,"  she  whispered,  "an  unhappy  place,  my  chateau?  All, 
all  dead !  The  race  are  extinct,  after  six  hundred  years. 
— Come,  I  give  you  thirty-five  minutes  before  the  soup." 

She  sprang  out :  and  Mark  was  led  away  to  his  room 
by  an  English  servant  of  such  distinguished  mien  that 
Mark  wondered  if  he  could  be  aware  of  the  irregularity 
of  Mrs.  Essenden's  position.  The  chamber  itself  was  a 
pleasant  novelty  after  Ushant,  and  Gatton,  and  the  Trois 
Piliers.  Mark  bathed  at  leisure  under  the  rosy  fire  of 
sunset,  and  wished  he  had  brought  his  evening  clothes 
with  him,  though  Jenny  had  assured  him  that  she  liked 
him  best  in  tweeds.  When  he  was  ready  to  go  down,  the 
man-servant  reappeared  bearing  a  tiny  cup  on  a  tray. 
Mark  took  it  mechanically;  but  a  liking  for  a  thimble- 
ful of  black  coffee  by  way  of  aperitif  is  not  common 
enough  to  be  gratified  by  chance,  and  Mark  as  he  drank 
it  looked  curiously  down  into  the  sober  honest  face. 
"How  do  you  know  I  like  coffee  before  dinner?"  he 
asked. 

"I  have  waited  on  you  before,  sir,  when  you  didn't 
bring  a  valet  of  your  own.  I  was  in  service  with  Mrs. 
Desmond  for  two  years." 

"You  know  me,  then?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Wonderful  head  you  must  have.  Well,  do  you  think 
you  could  find  me  a  clean  handkerchief?" 

"There  are  some  in  your  drawer,  sir." 

"Oh,  ah — thanks,"  said  Mark,  taking  the  loose  folds 


156  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

of  fine  linen  from  Carter's  speckless  hand  :  and  he  strolled 
downstairs  feeling  very  fresh  and  comfortable,  and  say- 
ing to  himself  that  Mrs.  Essenden's  valet  was  all  a  valet 
should  be. 

So,  he  soon  discovered,  was  Jenny's  dinner :  and  so 
(within  her  limits)  was  Jenny  herself.  Good  as  the 
wine  was  he  did  not  linger  over  it,  but  came  out  to  join 
his  hostess  on  the  terrace  in  the  twilight,  while  the  bats 
"on  leathern  wing"  flitted  and  wheeled  over  the  dewy 
lawn,  and  the  firwoods  on  the  hillside  opposite  were 
relieved  like  a  frieze  of  black  fern-leaves  against  the 
honey-colored  west.  Jenny  was  half  sitting,  half  lying 
among  green  cushions  on  a  gilt  couch,  and  Mark  pulled 
up  a  chair  and  sat  down  near  by.  But  she  was  disin- 
clined for  talk,  it  seemed ;  she  signed  to  him  to  help 
himself  to  a  cigarette,  and  then  she  lay  very  still,  her 
long  eyelashes  tangling  over  her  bright  eyes,  her  bosom 
scarcely  rising  and  falling  with  her  quiet  breath.  She 
was  in  a  black  dress,  graceful  and  flowing;  and  it  flashed 
across  Mark's  mind  by  a  freak  of  memory  that  she  was 
more  modestly  dressed  than  Maisie  would  have  been  of 
an  evening.  Mark  smiled  to  himself  and  Jenny  looked 
up  and  caught  him. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  No — whom  are  you  think- 
ing of?"  she  amended  swiftly. 

"Do  you  imagine,"  Mark  answered,  lazily  and  not 
too  respectfully  courteous,  "that  when  one  is  in  Mrs. 
Essenden's  company  one  ever  thinks  of  anything  but 
Mrs.  Essenden?" 

She  colored  vividly.  "Ah,  you  think  that  sort  of 
answer  is  good  enough  for  me!  No,  don't  apologize," 
for  Mark,  startled,  was  trying  to  do  so.  "One  can  never 
unsay  oneself,  can  one?  And  I  deserved  it  for  asking 
you  questions,  which  I  know  you  hate." 

"How  do  you  know  I  hate  it?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  157 

"Because  you're  so  intensely  reserved,  of  course.  I 
never  knew  any  one  so  reserved  as  you  are;  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  could  give  yourself  away  if  you  tried." 

With  many  men  this  would  have  been  a  useful  opening. 
Mark  spoiled  the  effect  by  listening  in  a  contented  silence. 
The  content  was  due  to  the  excellence  of  Jenny's  ciga- 
rettes. 

"Besides,"  said  Jenny,  trying  another  tack,  but  rather 
at  random,  "it's  a  family  trait.  Your  brother  hates  it 
too.  He's  a  very  interesting  man,  your  brother  Law- 
rence"— strange  how  Jenny's  view  agreed  with  Father 
de  Trafford's! — "though  infinitely  less  interesting  than 
you  are,  Mr.  Mark ;  but  it's  difficult  to  get  anything  out 
of  him  if  he  doesn't  want  one  to."  She  added  with  a 
funny  little  grin,  "Addresses,  for  instance." 

"Mine,  for  instance,"  Mark  assented.  "By  the  bye,  I 
didn't  grasp  how  you  came  to  hear  of  it  from  Father 
de  Trafford.  Who  told  you  I  knew  him?" 

"Captain  Sturt." 

"Did  he?  ('I  foiled  her.'  Oh,  Lawrence!)  When 
was  that  ?" 

"Oh,  ten  days  ago;  before  he  went  to  Colorado.  He 
dined  with  me  one  night,"  Mrs.  Essenden's  eyes  were 
dancing,  "and  I — I'm  afraid  I  pumped  him.  But  I  don't 
think  he  found  it  out.  You  haven't  heard  from  him  yet, 
I  suppose?  Men  never  write  to  each  other,  do  they?" 

"Oh,  my  brother's  a  great  correspondent;  in  fact  I 
heard  from  him  this  morning,  and  he  mentioned  having 
met  you,  but  he  didn't  say  anything  about  Father  de 
Trafford." 

"I'm  sure  he  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Jenny  merrily, 
"and  yet  it  was  very  easy.  Oh,  I  didn't  say  anything 
to  compromise  you,  Mr.  Mark!  I  know  what  danger- 
ous people  priests  are  to  meddle  with.  I  went  to  Father 
de  Trafford  on  my  own  affairs,  and  then  I  just  spoke  of 


158  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

you  as  having  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  said  I  should 
have  liked  to  write  and  thank  you  if  you  hadn't  gone  to 
America  .  .  .  are  you  shocked?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Mark.  In  point  of  fact  he  was  grati- 
fied, as  was  Jenny's  desire;  but  he  was  also — and  this 
was  by  no  means  Jenny's  desire — faintly  startled  and 
restless.  Lawrence — Father  de  Trafford — Carter,  who 
knew  his  ways — even  the  coffee  and  the  handkerchiefs — 
why,  what  a  web  it  was  that  had  been  spun  about  him ! 
More  than  half  accident  ?  For  a  moment,  till  he  thought 
of  the  chateau  itself,  which  could  hardly  have  been  rented 
and  staffed  in  ten  days,  he  wondered  if  accident  had  had 
any  hand  at  all  in  bringing  Mrs.  Essenden  to  Duclair. 
But  it  was  a  lovely  evening,  Jenny's  chef  knew  his  trade, 
and  .  .  .  Jenny's  tokay  was  so  delicate,  after  the  vin 
ordinaire  of  the  Trois  Piliers,  that  Mark  had  taken  per- 
haps a  little  more  than  his  usual  temperate  allowance. 
His  nerve  was  cool  and  his  hand  steady;  it  took  more 
than  an  extra  glass  or  so  of  tokay  to  throw  Mark  off  his 
balance ;  but  he  was  disposed  to  look  with  a  lenient  eye 
on  the  slips  of  a  pretty  woman  who  flattered  his  vanity. 
"Not  a  bit,"  said  Mark.  "But,  I  say,  Mrs.  Essenden,  why 
did  you  want  my  address  ?" 

She  looked  up,  clear-eyed.  "I  don't  know.  I  just 
sort  of  thought  I  should  like  to  see  you  again,  that  was 
all.  You  were  so  very  kind  io  me  when  poor  Freddy 
was  ill.  I  never  have  had  anything  to  do  with  illness, 
and  I  hate  it  and  I'm  afraid  of  it;  but  I  was  fearfully 
sorry  for  my  poor  Freddy,  and  I  did  so  'want  to  help 
him,  and  you — somehow — showed  me  the  way." 

"I  showed  you  the  way  to  help  Field?" 

"Yes.  You  were  so  gentle  with  him,  and  you»seemed 
to  know  just  how  best  to  manage  him.  I  thought  then 
that  if  ever  I  were  very  tired  of  everything  I  should  like 
you  to  be  gentle  to  me  in  the  same  way,  Mr.  Mark.  You 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  159 

never  seem  to  be  afraid  of  anything  yourself,  and  I'm 
afraid  of — oh,  ever  such  a  lot  of  things.  Death,  for 
instance." 

Mark  rose,  tossing  away  his  cigarette,  and  folded  his 
arms  along  the  high  carved  balustrade.  He  had  first  to 
clear  away  the  trails  of  red  Chambery  roses  that  had 
twined  their  thorny  sprays  in  and  out  among  the  carving, 
and  the  scent  of  crushed  petals  mixed  its  incense  with 
the  damp  breath  of  the  woods.  And  now  that  he  was 
no  longer  watching  her  there  came  a  subtle  change  of 
expression  into  Mrs.  Essenden's  face.  Dark  against  the 
clear  night  sky,  either  artist  or  sportsman  would  have 
admired  Mark  Sturt's  heavy  frame,  broad  of  shoulder, 
lean  of  flank,  essentially  a  male  type,  destructive  and 
creative ;  and  so  Jenny  admired  him ;  her  eyes  fastened 
on  him  with  a  peculiarly  hungry  look. 

"Listen  to  the  Angelus  in  the  valley,"  she  said.  There 
was  no  harmony  between  her  musical  voice  and  her  eyes. 
"You  are  a  good  Catholic,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Mark?  And 
I'm  a  very  bad  one.  Some  day  I  shall  repent,  and  con- 
fess my  sins,  and  be  good  ever  after,  but  I  don't  want 
to  do  it  just  yet.  I  want  to  sin  a  little  more  first." 

"But  you  are  not  a  Catholic,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  Jenny  answered.  "One  of  my  other 
lovers  converted  me." 

"How  old  are  you,  child?"  asked  Mark  roughly. 

"Twenty-five." 

Two  years  older  than  Maisie.    Mark  was  silent. 

"It  is  the  only  faith  to  die  in,"  Jenny  ran  on  softly. 
"And  I'm  fearfully  afraid  of  death.  Not  now,  you  know 
— not  while  you're  here;  but  when  I'm  alone.  I  stuck 
to  Freddy  till  the  end,  he  died  in  my  arms,  but  I  hated  it 
all  the  time.  Of  course  that  was  horrid  of  me;  still  I 
did  stick  to  him.  But  afterwards  I  was  tired — oh,  so 
tired !  So  then  I  thought  I'd  come  away  by  myself  and 


160  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

be  quiet,  but  that  didn't  pay  either.  Women  like  me  can't 
afford  the  luxury  of  their  own  company,  there  are  too 
many  ghosts.  Am  I  boring  you?" 

"No,"  said  Mark.  She  was  in  fact  sending  him  to 
sleep;  but  he  was  not  bored.  Under  the  low,  lulling 
voice  a  hint  of  dead  passions  glimmered  like  wreckage 
in  shoal  water,  and  Mark  was  not  one  of  those  men  for 
whom  sea  peril  has  no  lure.  He  liked  his  company.  It 
did  not  strike  him  that  he  stood  in  any  real  danger; 
after  fourteen  years'  immunity,  after  the  fight  at 
Ushant,  he  was  not  afraid  of  such  a  thing  as  Jenny 
Essenden. 

Jenny  knit  her  brows :  he  was  difficult — she  liked  him 
for  it.  She  had  been  almost  as  much  attracted  by  Law- 
rence Sturt  as  by  Mark,  but  she  had  fixed  on  Mark  be- 
cause Lawrence  was  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 

"Not  that  I  want  to  pretend  I'm  sorry  about  any- 
thing," she  said  with  a  light  laugh.  "I'm  sorry  Freddy 
died,  but  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  for  the  rest  of  the  incident. 
I'm  not  one  of  those  dreary  ladies  who  lose  their  money 
on  both  sides  of  the  bet.  Virtue  may  be  a  pretty  person 
— I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  make  her  acquaintance: 
mine  also  is  le  beau  role,  and  I'm  sure  it's  much  more 
amusing.  Oh,  here  comes  Riche.  Now  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  this  chartreuse.  I  took  over  the 
cellar  with  the  chateau,  and  they  told  me  great  things 
of  it;  and  Riche  and  I  would  like  your  opinion." 

"First-rate,  if  it's  like  your  tokay,"  said  Mark.  He 
held  it  up  to  the  light;  the  bubble-fine  Venetian  glass 
was  as  precious  as  the  green  dew  within  it.  "First-rate 
it  is !  No,  no  more,  thanks." 

"But  you  can  leave  the  tray,"  said  Jenny ;  and  then 
as  the  servant  withdrew,  "Riche  is  pleased.  He  said  he 
was  sure  you  were  a  connoisseur.  He  is  such  a  nice 
man — so  trustworthy:  you  might  say  just  a  word  to 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  161 

him  about  it  if  you  get  the  chance.  I  always  seem  to 
be  so  lucky  with  my  servants,"  she  added  merrily.  "I 
wonder  why." 

Mark  did  not  answer,  but  by  his  kindly  eyes  Jenny 
knew  that  another  subtle  stroke  had  gone  home.  Fifi 
bundling  down  the  terrace,  an  animated  mat  of  curls, 
to  subside  with  snufflings  of  deep  affection  in  the  crook 
of  Jenny's  arm,  was  an  undesigned  but  effective  ally. 
Mark  was  not  fond  of  little  dogs,  but  Fifi  was  all  right 
for  Jenny,  and,  if  he  liked  to  see  a  woman  fond  of  ani- 
mals, he  liked  even  better  a  woman  of  whom  animals 
were  fond. 

The  western  light  faded,  and  the  stars  came  out.  Lamps 
flashed  like  jewels  in  the  windows  of  Jenny's  chateau. 
Mark  lingered  on  the  darkening  terrace,  indolent  with 
the  indolence  that  comes  of  a  good  dinner  and  a  good 
digestion,  perfume  of  flowers,  perfume  of  a  summer 
sunset,  perfume  of  wine;  his  senses  were  all  rosed  over 
with  a  pleasurable  warmth.  Jenny  had  fallen  silent  for 
some  time,  when  the  distant  chiming  from  a  church  tower 
roused  Mark  Sturt  to  glance  at  his  watch.  "Eleven 
o'clock!"  he  said.  "I  must  be  getting  back.  They  go 
to  bed  early  at  Duclair.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Essenden,  for 
a  delightful  evening " 

"You  are  not  going  back  to-night?" 

"But  of  course!  Didn't  you  very  kindly  say  I  could 
have  the  car  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  thought  you  had  given  up  the  idea.  Why, 
it's  miles  and  miles,  and  all  through  dark  country  lanes ! 
Pm  sure  that  little  estaminet  of  yours  will  have  shut  up 
ages  ago." 

"But  I  have  nothing  with  me." 

"But  the  man  will  see  to  that!  I  told  him  you  might 
be  staying  the  night,  and  you  don't  know  how  clever  he 
is.  I'm  sure  you'll  find  everything  in  your  room.  Oh, 


162  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Mr.  Mark,  I  can't  let  you  turn  out  at  this  time  of  night. 
I  never  heard  of  anything  so  inhospitable !" 

She  slipped  to  her  feet,  and  Mark  felt  her  little  hand 
settle  on  his  arm.  He  stood  rigid  under  her  touch.  The 
furtive  expression  had  vanished  from  her  eyes ;  they 
were  bright,  there  was  a  haze  over  them,  and  her  bosom 
fluttered. 

"Why — why  won't  you  stay?"  she  murmured.     "Is — 
is  it  because  I  am  what  I  am  ?" 
He  was  speechless. 

"You  wouldn't  feel  safe  with  me?"  Jenny  breathed. 
"The — the  woman  who  knows  how  to  make  the  running  ? 
The  woman  whom  a  man  needn't  respect?  That  tempts 
you,  does  it?"  It  did:  with  such  a  potent  shock  of 
temptation  that  Mark's  will  seemed  to  turn  to  water. 
Oh !  after  the  racking  strain  of  Ushant,  what  if  he  were 
to  resign  himself,  for  the  briefest  interlude,  to  the  prac- 
ticed, the  exquisite  facility  of  Jenny's  unholy  charm? 
What,  after  all,  does  a  Jenny  Essenden  more  or  less  count 
for  in  a  man's  life? 

"Oh,  I  didn't  think  you  would  say  this  to  me!"  Jenny 
murmured.  She  sank  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her 
very  neck  was  rosy;  then  lifting  her  head,  with  an  in- 
fernal sparkle  in  her  wet  eyes,  "Well,  and — and  if  it 
were  so?  If  I  were  to  own  that  I'm  a  little  in  love  with 
you?  Why — why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Faith,  why  not?"  Mark  repeated. 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  After  all,  why 
not?  For  his  wife's  sake?  She  had  left  him.  For 
Guy  de  Trafford's  sake  ?  That  bond  snapped  like  thread 
in  a  candle  flame.  For  love  of  the  vision  of  God  ?  Mark's 
eyes  were  bloodshot  and  his  brain  was  whirling;  he 
could  still  laugh,  but  he  could  not  pray. 

Mark  laughed  at  himself,  but  Mrs.  Essenden  naturally 
thought  he  was  laughing  at  her.  The  rose-red  turned 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  163 

scarlet;  she  snatched  her  hand  from  his  sleeve  and 
leaned  her  forehead  on  the  balustrade  with  a  little  wail 
of  sobbing. 

"Good  heavens !  what  a  brute  I  am !"  Mark  exclaimed. 
It  was  the  second  time  within  a  month  that  he  had  made 
a  woman  cry.  "Jenny,  Jenny,  don't!"  he  said,  slipping 
his  arm  round  her  waist.  Jenny  made  a  brief  pretense 
of  rebellion;  she  knew  in  that  moment,  and  hated  him 
for  knowing  it,  that  her  victory  was  won.  He  would  not 
escape  her  after  having  made  her  weep.  "Jenny,  sweet- 
est, dry  your  pretty  eyes !"  said  Mark.  "I  can't  tell  you 
why  I  laughed,  but  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  you,  I 
swear." 

"I  hate  you !"  said  Mrs.  Essenden  passionately. 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Mark,  taking  her  in  his  arms.  "I  un- 
derstood you  to  say  you  were  a  little  in  love  with  me." 

"I  don't.     Oh,  I  hate— hate  you!" 

"That's  very  unkind.    And  mayn't  I  stay,  then?" 

"No,  no ;  you  don't  want  to  stay.  What  am  I  to  you  ? 
Freddy  Field's  mistress.  You  like  innocent  women. 
Leave  poor  little  Jenny  alone — you  and  your  moralities 
— what  do  you  want  of  me?  an  andenne,  a " 

"Kiss  me,"  said  Mark  in  a  sudden  flame  of  passion. 
She  was  a  small  and  slender  woman,  and  he  lifted  her 
like  a  child  and  set  her  on  the  balustrade,  and  pressed 
his  lips  against  the  coolness  of  her  white  throat.  It 
was  dark;  but  if  it  had  been  noonday  Mark  would  not 
have  cared. 

"Oh!  how  strong  you  are!"  Jenny  murmured.  She 
nestled  down,  clinging  to  him  with  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  "Oh!  but,  Mark,  not  here  .  .  .  indoors  .  .  ." 

No,  Mrs.  Essenden  was  not  worth  the  flaming  sword 


CHAPTER  X 

MARK  did  not  go  back  to  Duclair  that  or  any  subse- 
quent night.  He  stayed  on  at  the  chateau,  amus- 
ing himself  in  a  fit  of  thorough-paced  indolence  with 
Jenny  and  Jenny's  cuisine  and  her  car  and  her  gardens 
and— delightful  unforeseen  accessory — her  mile  of  trout 
stream.  It  may  be  confessed  that  he  did  not  take  him- 
self, or  Jenny,  very  seriously.  When  he  did  reflect  at 
all  upon  his  own  doings,  the  one  definite  scruple  that 
came  up  was  dislike  of  his  position  as  Jenny's  guest,  but 
after  all  she  was  a  rich  woman  and  the  money  was  her 
own.  He  heard  a  good  deal  of  her  history  from  time 
to  time  in  those  warm  August  days:  a  history  perhaps 
a  little  edited,  a  little  glossed,  but  true  enough  in  its 
main  outlines. 

Mrs.  Essenden  was  the  second  daughter  of  a  country 
clergyman,  and  had  been  brought  up  after  the  straitest 
sect  of  Evangelical  doctrine:  long  family  prayers  night 
and  morning,  droned  out  through  Mr.  Simpson's  long 
hooked  nose;  dresses  cast  off  by  a  rich  cousin;  roast 
mutton  and  suet  pudding,  muddy  roads  and  starved 
hearths.  Catherine,  the  elder  sister,  was  placid  and  fond 
of  good  works ;  Maggie,  the  youngest,  had  wits  that 
carried  her  to  Newnham.  Jenny  had  nothing  but  her 
prettiness  and  her  baffled  social  aptitudes.  When  she  was 
seventeen  her  father  found  her  out  in  a  fiery  flirtation 
with  the  curate,  and  after  a  still  more  fiery  lecture  Jenny 
was  packed  off  to  a  situation  to  act  as  governess  to  an 
elderly  widower's  little  girl.  What  never  entered  Mr. 
Simpson's  head  was  that  Jenny  would  marry  the  widower; 

164 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  165 

but  she  did  within  six  months,  and  brought  him  home 
in  triumph,  unenvied  of  her  family. 

She  made  him  a  good  wife.  She  had  a  keen  sense  of 
what  was  due  to  others,  and  would  have  felt  it  wrong 
to  defraud  her  husband  of  his  bargain.  Timothy  Essen- 
den,  brewer,  was  a  little  bald  kindly  man  with  a  thin 
neck  like  that  of  a  hen,  reddish  and  covered  with  goose- 
flesh  :  very  fond  of  his  young  wife,  very  anxious  to 
make  her  happy,  very  little  able  to  do  so  by  any  other 
means  than  the  course  which  he  ultimately  followed — 
that  of  dying  within  a  year  or  two  of  his  marriage  and 
leaving  her  half  his  money. 

Jenny  was  not  a  greedy  woman,  and  she  did  not  com- 
plain because  the  other  half  went  to  little  Laura.  But 
she  had  no  quarrel  with  Providence  when  Laura,  whose 
small  frame  had  not  derived  its  full  share  of  vitality 
from  Mr.  Essenden's  exhausted  middle  age,  sickened  of 
scarlet  fever  and  died  at  her  boarding  school.  Mrs. 
Essenden  was  now  left  alone  in  the  world,  a  rich  woman 
of  twenty  without  encumbrance.  Her  father  offered  her 
a  home  at  the  parsonage,  but  when  Jenny  spoke  of  travel 
he  agreed,  not  without  relief,  that  she  might  as  well  see 
the  world  while  she  was  young.  It  never  crossed  his 
fancy  that  one  of  his  girls  could  go  astray.  Jenny  there- 
fore set  out  for  France  without  even  a  chaperon.  With 
what  plans  she  went  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  for  the  in- 
fluence of  a  decent  upbringing  was  still  strong  on  her, 
and  though  her  eyes  courted  insult  her  acquired  instinct 
was  to  reseat  it.  But,  if  blame  falls  to  the  man  who 
broke  Jenny  in,  at  least  he  found  an  apt  and  merry 
pupil. 

A  friend  of  the  family  met  Jenny  in  Venice.  Scandal 
was  already  flying  about,  and  Mrs.  Morgan,  in  the  role 
of  a  woman  of  the  world,  spoke  to  the  lovely  unguarded 
young  widow.  Mrs.  Morgaa  used  to  say  afterwards  that 


166  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

she  had  never  been  so  shocked  in  her  life.  Jenny  had 
had  enough  of  sermons,  and  was  not  fond  of  other  women 
at  the  best  of  times ;  she  told  the  truth  roundly,  and 
drove  the  elder  lady  from  the  field.  Letters  from  home 
followed,  incredulous,  touching,  stern :  Jenny  tore  them 
up.  At  last  Mr.  Simpson  came  out  in  person  to  Venice, 
and  was  met,  not  by  Jenny,  but  by  Jenny's  deputy.  The 
scene  was  brief,  and  the  expression  controlled  on  both 
sides,  for  Mr.  Simpson  was  a  University  man,  and  he 
did  not  fall  into  the  blunder  of  sermonizing  Jenny's 
deputy,  though  he  would  certainly  have  sermonized  Jenny. 
He  stayed  only  long  enough  to  make  certain  that  Jenny 
knew  what  she  was  about,  and  went  home  a  harsher  and 
a  sadder  man. 

An  unexpected  issue  of  the  interview  was  that  Jenny's 
deputy,  who  had  not  liked  his  role,  departed  at  the  same 
time,  leaving  the  little  sinner  to  her  own  devices.  Jenny 
wept — for  twenty-four  hours :  then  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders and  looked  out  for  a  successor.  That  was  four 
years  ago,  when  she  was  barely  of  age ;  she  was  twenty- 
five  now,  and  there  had  been  plenty  of  adventures,  with 
intervals  of  repose,  between  the  Venetian  calamity  and 
the  capture  of  Mark  Sturt. 

Why  had  she  planned  to  capture  Mark  Sturt?  Be- 
cause she  liked  him,  but  not  for  that  reason  only.  She 
was  fascinated  by  his  physical  attributes,  by  the  tanned 
skin,  brilliant  eye,  and  powerful  frame  which  set  him 
as  far  apart  from  her  little  bald  husband  as  from  Fred- 
erick Field's  pitiful  surrender:  the  last  months  of  her 
connection  with  Field  had  been  a  sore  trial  to  Jenny, 
and  she  took  no  small  credit  to  herself  for  sticking  to 
him  to  the  end.  Now  she  could  not  associate  Mark  Sturt 
with  any  idea  of  sickness  or  death,  still  less  of  delicacy. 
Then  again  he  was  known  to  be  difficult ;  his  notoriously 
cold  temper — notorious  because  he  was  Lawrence  SUirt's 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  167 

brother — was  a  challenge  to  her  notion  of  her  sex's  do- 
minion. Men  ought  not  to  live  without  women,  Jenny 
thought:  if  any  man  indulged  the  delusion  of  his  being 
able  to  do  so  it  was  high  time  that  he  should  be  brought  to 
book.  Last,  but  not  least,  Mark  was  a  big  fish  for  Jenny 
to  land.  She  had  many  correspondents,  and  it  tickled 
the  very  marrow  of  her  vanity  to  be  able  to  write  with 
artful-artless  vagueness,  "What  a  dear  fellow  Mark  Sturt 
is  when  you  get  to  know  him !  Pots  of  money,  and  as 
simple  as  a  boy.  I  am  learning  all  the  ins  and  outs  of 
political  life  from  him — I  forget  if  I  told  you  he  is  here 
in  Normandy." 

This  was  not  true,  for  Mark  never  talked  politics  with 
Mrs.  Essenden ;  but  it  was  as  good  as  true,  for  by  dint 
of  talking  a  good  deal  herself  and  watching  his  expres- 
sion Jenny  did  manage  to  pick  up  some  ideas  about  the 
lighter  side  of  political  life.  That  she  could  not  get  any 
further  annoyed  her,  but  to  her  probings  Mark  remained 
impervious.  Nor  would  he  talk  about  Arthur  Sturt,  or 
Lawrence,  or  Gatton,  or  the  war,  or  any  other  personal 
topic.  Maisie  often  jarred  his  taste,  Jenny  rarely;  and 
yet  he  did  not  much  mind  what  Maisie  knew  about  him, 
while  for  Jenny  all  doors  were  barred. 

Once,  after  some  weeks  at  the  chateau,  he  borrowed 
one  of  Jenny's  horses  to  ride  into  Rouen.  Jenny  would 
have  liked  an  explanation,  but  she  got  none,  and  Mr. 
Sturt  was  away  several  hours.  Jenny  waited  for  him  in 
the  garden,  sitting  on  the  lawn  in  the  shadow  of  an  aspen ; 
bowers  of  roses  made  a  screen  for  her,  while  near  by  a 
fountain  dispensed  innumerable  jets  of  water,  which  fell 
in  a  soft  splashing  and  rippling  over  the  chipped  limbs 
of  a  struggling  nymph  and  faun.  Peering  between  the 
flowery  branches,  Jenny  saw  Mark  stroll  down  the  ter- 
race and  vault  across  the  balustrade.  She  called  to  him, 
and  he  came  to  her  over  the  grass,  still  breeched  and 


168  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

booted,  and  threw  himself  down  on  one  arm  beside  her 
cushions.  "Pretty  thing,  kiss  me,"  he  said  with  sparkling 
eyes.  Jenny's  heart  began  to  throb;  it  was  in  this  tem- 
per that  she  loved  him,  or  nearly  loved  him,  Mark 
threw  his  free  arm  round  her  and  dragged  her  down, 
crumpling  all  her  rosy  muslins.  "What  a  shame,  isn't 
it?"  he  whispered.  "My  dusty  head  against  a  roseleaf 
throat  like  yours.  How  cool  you  are,  Jenny,  and  how 
sweet  you  smell!  It  was  hot  in  Rouen  and  the  stinks 
were  pretty  bad  .  .  .  See  us  ?  They  can't,  and  what  the 
devil  does  it  matter  if  they  do?  Don't  be  bourgeoise, 
Sapho." 

"Mark !  If  you  call  me  that  atrocious  name,  you — 
you  shan't  have  what  I've  got  for  you." 

"What  might  that  be?  Chocolates,  with  any  luck." 
Then  he  saw  what  it  was  and  his  manner  changed.  "Oh, 
a  letter  for  me  ?  Thanks.  Fifi,  you  shut  up." 

"I've  half  a  mind  not  to  let  you  have  it." 

"Please  do."  He  took  it  out  of  her  hand,  glanced  at 
the  writing,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Who's  it  from?"  demanded  Jenny. 

"Another  lady,  of  course,"  Mark  grinned. 

"It's  from  Lawrence,  isn't  it  ?" 

"My  brother — yes." 

"Why  does  he  address  it  to  Duclair?" 

"All  my  letters  go  to  Duclair  except  those  that  Hen- 
ham  forwards  from  the  flat.  I  was  obliged  to  let  him 
have  my  direction  because  he  gets  a  lot  of  official  stuff 
which  ought  not  to  be  delayed,  but  he  is  trustworthy." 

"You  haven't  told  any  one  but  Henham  where  you 
are?" 

"You  seem  amnoyed !" 

"Not  even  Lawrence?" 

"Does  that  surprise  you?" 

"Rather,"  Jenny  admitted.     "I   thought  men   always 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  169 

kissed  and  told."  She  took  his  temples  between  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  and  a  caress,  light  as  a  moth's  wing, 
brushed  his  lips.  "I  rather  like  you  for  not  telling."  In 
reality,  she  reflected,  it  was  one  for  her  and  two  for 
himself ;  he  was  ashamed  of  her.  "Well,  aren't  you  going 
to  read  your  letter?  I  haven't  read  it;  you  see  it  was 
sealed." 

"Yes,  my  brother  often  seals  his  letters,"  said  Mark, 
breaking  the  envelope.  "Silly  trick,  because  there's  never 
anything  in  them."  He  glanced  down  the  sheet  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket. 

"Do  you  and  Lawrence  often  write  to  each  other?" 

"He  writes  pretty  often.     I  hardly  ever  do." 

"You  and  he  are  twins,  aren't  you?  I  suppose  you're 
very  fond  of  each  other." 

"Oh,  very." 

"Whom  do  you  love  best  in  the  world,  Mark  ?" 

"You,  of  course." 

"Oh !  pass  for  that,"  Jenny  said  with  her  little  grimace. 
She  had  no  illusions.  "Whom  after  me?" 

"Er — Fifi,"  Mark  answered,  pulling  the  little  dog's 
ears.  Fifi  showed  her  teeth;  jealous  like  her  mistress, 
she  hated  Mark,  and  would  go  into  convulsions  of  minia- 
ture rage  if  endearments  passed  in  her  presence.  "Love 
me  love  my  dog.  Fifi  doesn't  love  me,  though,  do  you, 
Fifi  ?  Bite  then."  He  put  his  finger  in  her  mouth. 

"And  after  Fifi — whom?  Lawrence?  Or  the  other 
lady?" 

"The  other  lady,  I  expect."  Mark  yawned  without 
apology.  "Ouf !  I  must  go  and  change.  I  want  a  bath, 
Jenny,  the  Rouen  road  is  inches  deep  in  dust.  Oh,  I  for- 
got to  say  the  other  lady  lives  in  Rouen.  That's  why  I 
went  over.  I've  been  buying  her  a  cracker  brooch.  Do 
you  think  she'll  like  it?  The  cracker  shops  aren't  very 
good  in  Rouen,  but  it's  too  far  to  go  to  Carnage's." 


170  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Jenny  bit  her  lip.  A  judge  of  stones,  she  knew  that 
the  price  of  the  spray  of  ruby  rosebuds  Mark  tossed  into 
her  lap  had  run  into  three  figures.  Was  she  grateful? 
Jenny  Essenden  loved  jewels;  but  one  reason  why  she 
hated  Mark  Sturt  was  that  he  had  power  to  remind  her 
of  Jenny  Simpson. 

"Mr.  Sturt  settles  his  hotel  bill/'  she  said  scornfully. 

"Jenny!"  Impassive  as  he  was,  she  made  him  start; 
she  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head.  "Good  heavens,  child! 
I  only  meant  to  please  you." 

"With  rubies;  and  you  won't  tell  me  one  little  single 
thing  about  yourself.  No  man  ever  before  made  me  feel 
as  you  do  that  I  was  nothing  to  him  but  a  toy." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  whispering  reckless  ardors, 
and  after  a  brief  struggle  Jenny  lay  still.  She  let  hirri 
pin  the  ruby  spray  at  the  curve  of  her  breast,  she  let 
him  brush  away  the  dew  from  her  lashes ;  she  was  more 
exquisite  in  her  pale  surrender  than  in  her  rosy  triumph, 
and  when  she  murmured,  "Be  nice  to  Jenny,"  Mark  very 
nearly  forgot  his  predecessors.  Nearly — not  quite:  in 
the  very  hour  of  passion  the  ghost  of  poor  young  Field 
warned  him  with  its  monitory  eyes,  "Such  the  look  and 
such  the  smile"  she  "used  to  love  with,  then  as  now."  It 
was  not  Jenny's  sins  that  came  between  her  and  Mark, 
it  was  this  ill-defined  yet  haunting  sense  of  the  unreal, 
the  factitious,  in  Jenny  herself.  He  would  as  soon  have 
taken  Fifi  seriously. 

And  he  was  not  always  nice  to  Jenny;  now  and  then, 
unintentionally,  he  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  this  profound 
indifference  which  underlay  his  fiercest  desire.  She  knew 
that  she  held  him  only  by  a  frail  thread,  and  the  knowl- 
edge made  her  ten  times  more  resolute  to  hold  him.  She 
matched  her  wits  to  his,  and  when  he  was  tepid  she 
turned  cynically  cold,  and  would  absent  herself  or  very 
nearly  ignore  him  for  days  at  a  time.  Then  there  would 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  171 

follow  the  flare-up  of  a  tiny  quarrel,  and  then  the  nerve- 
sapping  sweetness  of  reconciliation.  She  had  the  whip- 
hand  of  Mark  because  she  was  in  earnest,  while  he  did 
not  care  enough  about  her  to  analyze  her  conduct  or  his 
own.  If  he  had  realized  that  she  was  straining  every 
nerve  to  keep  him,  he  would  soon  have  shaken  himself 
free,  but  she  never  let  him  find  it  out;  indeed,  between 
her  quarrels  and  her  sweetness,  and  the  fishing,  and  the 
car,  and  the  cellar,  and  the  soul-destroying  apathy  of 
satiation  to  which  she  condemned  him  at  will,  Mark  had 
small  chance  to  think  at  all.  After  fourteen  years,  riot 
ran  pretty  strong  in  Mark's  veins :  Jenny  provoked  it : 
she  knew  her  trade  as  well  as  any  street  drab,  and  reveled 
in  it.  It  charmed  her  to  fire  him  to  brutality  by  twenty- 
four  hours'  neglect.  A  gambler  born,  Jenny  played  high ; 
and  for  this  reason  the  break  in  their  relation  came  from 
her  and  not  from  him. 

Jenny  retired  to  her  room  one  day  to  think  about  the 
future.  It  was  nearing  the  end  of  September,  and  in  a 
week  or  two  the  golden  season  was  sure  to  break,  for 
Norman  autumns  close  early;  the  chateau  was  fairyland 
in  the  misty  sunshine,  but  the  first  blast  of  cold  rain 
would  turn  it  to  a  desolation,  and  then — Jenny  was  sure  of 
it — Mark  would  find  out  that  he  must  get  back  to  work. 
She  knew  that  there  is  always  work  to  be  done  by  a 
man  in  Mark's  position.  She  knew  all  about  Gatton. 
How  did  she  know?  Jack  Bennet  did  not  seal  his  cor- 
respondence. There  were  loose  political  threads  to  be 
knit  up  before  the  coming  session.  Mark's  friends  too 
were  getting  impatient;  Jenny  seized  her  earliest  chance 
to  pick  his  pocket  of  one  of  Mrs.  Ferrier's  letters,  the 
feminine  writing  having  stabbed  her  into  jealousy,  and 
its  gay  intimate  tone  and  frequent  political  allusions  filled 
her  with  rage  and  dismay.  Sad  to  tell,  she  set  down 
Charles  Furrier  as  an  injured  husband,  and  Mark  went 


172  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

up  in  her  esteem;  but  her  wrath  against  Dodo  would 
have  surprised  that  lady. 

Jenny  reckoned  Dodo  as  a  dangerous  rival,  one  indeed 
for  whom  on  her  own  ground  Jenny  was  no  match.  Dodo 
touched  Mark's  life  through  his  work,  Jenny  only 
through  her  sex.  Once  riveted  on  Mark's  neck,  Jenny 
believed  that  her  fetters  would  stand  any  strain;  but 
he  was  not  half  hers  yet,  and  Dodo's  light  lure  was  not 
the  only  peril  Jenny  saw  ahead.  Of  whom  was  she 
afraid?  A  man  of  Mark  Sturt's  antecedents  must  be 
sunk  drowning  deep  in  inertia  before  he  will  bear,  with- 
out revulsion,  certain  forms  of  moral  shock. 

Therefore,  playing  high,  Jenny  struck  first.  She  chose 
a  veiled  September  evening,  blowy  and  mild ;  the  evening 
of  one  of  those  days  that  ripen  the  pears  and  apples, 
and  set  the  sap  stirring  in  late  blooming  roses.  Mark 
had  been  out  with  a  gun  all  day,  and  came  in  quite  happy 
with  a  brace  of  rabbits ;  it  was  not  precisely  sport,  but  it 
was  a  harmless  method  of  whiling  away  the  silken,  sunny 
hours.  He  looked,  to  a  superficial  glance,  much  the  bet- 
ter for  his  time  at  the  chateau,  and  he  had  put  on  weight ; 
Father  de  Trafford's  glance  would  have  darkened,  and  a 
trainer  might  have  questioned  his  staying  power,  but  he 
was  still  in  pretty  fair  condition,  hand  and  eye  in  happy 
accord.  Dinner  over,  Jenny  strolled  into  the  salon  and 
sat  down  to  the  piano.  Her  playing  was  her  one  accom- 
plishment, and  she  had  early  found  out  that  it  was  one 
which  appealed  to  Mark  Sturt ;  no  pianist  himself, 
he  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  would  sit 
for  hours  listening  while  her  small  fingers  danced  over 
the  keys.  So  now :  she  had  scarcely  got  through  a  dozen 
bars  when  Mark  lounged  into  the  room. 

It  was  a  room  that  made  a  rare  setting  for  Jenny's 
bizarre  charm.  Gilt  moldings  divided  the  walls  into 
panels,  which  were  filled,  some  with  water  colors,  some 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  173 

with  valuable  antique  tapestry :  faint  tints  of  vermeil  and 
azure  and  straw-color  telling  the  tale  of  Perseus  and 
Andromeda  in  a  sequence  of  dim  pictures.  The  house 
being  old  was  draughty,  and  when  the  wind  blew,  as  to- 
night, it  worked  its  way  in  underfoot  and  overhead,  puf- 
fing up  the  Aubusson  carpet  into  little  swells,  and  sway- 
ing the  framed  arras,  till  a  trembling  like  life  passed 
over  Andromeda's  discolored  limbs,  and  the  tail  of  the 
dragon  waved  under  the  high  gilded  cornice.  The  furni- 
ture was  light  and  graceful,  and  so  arranged  as  to  in- 
crease the  effect  of  space ;  there  was  a  profusion  of  pale 
wood  and  ormolu,  of  marquetry  and  vague  brocades. 
This  room  had  distinction,  and  it  was  to  Jenny's  credit 
that  she  shone  in  it ;  its  effect  even  on  Mark  was  to  make 
him  pull  down  his  white  waistcoat  and  give  a  little  twist 
to  his  mustache. 

"Come  and  sing,"  said  Jenny.  He  had  a  baritone  voice, 
untrained  but  naturally  easy,  and  a  good  ear,  and  it  had 
amused  him  many  a  night  to  stand  behind  Jenny's  chair 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  run  through  the  score 
of  an  opera  with  her.  But  to-night  he  shook  his  head 
and  sat  down  in  a  big  chair,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the 
arm  of  it  and  his  forehead  on  his  hand.  "No,  you  play 
to  me.  Something  with  a  nice  tune  in  it — what?" 

"Gay  or  melancholy?"  asked  Jenny,  preluding  in  bril- 
liant runs  and  trills. 

"Don't  care." 

"Tell  you  a  little  story,  then,"  said  Jenny.  "This  cha- 
teau was  the  dower  house  of  the  Comtesse  de  Geres. 
She  was  a  widow  with  two  sons,  Philippe  and  Rohan. 
When  the  war  broke  out  they  naturally  went  to  fight. 
One  autumn  evening  in  1915 — it  was  late  in  September; 
perhaps  for  all  I  know  this  very  night — the  Countess 
was  standing  in  the  window,  there  by  the  bookcase,  wait- 
ing for  the  facteur.  She  saw  him  a  long  way  off  in  the 


174  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

avenue,  and  she  beckoned  him  across  the  grass.  He 
came  up  and  put  into  her  hand  two  official  envelopes, 
just  alike,  printed  forms  from  the  French  War  Office. 
Philippe  had  been  killed  in  Champagne  on  the  twenty- 
sixth,  and  Rohan  in  Artois  among  the  orchards  of  La 
Folie  one  day  later.  Philippe  was  twenty-five  and  Rohan 
nineteen ;  they  were  the  last  male  descendants  of  the  line. 
Madame  de  Cleres  took  the  veil,  and  she  is  a  nun  in  the 
convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart  in  Rouen  to  this  day.  Now 
this  was  her  own  piano,  and  these  that  I'm  going  to 
play  to  you  are  some  of  her  tunes." 

And  she  began  to  play  light  French  operatic  airs  of 
the  Second  Empire,  trivialities  of  Offenbach  and  Auber, 
La  Vie  Parisienne,  Les  Diamants  de  la  Couronne,  sweet 
and  folichon,  not  the  music  of  a  nun.     Mark,  tired  after 
his  long  tramp  in  the  open  air,  listened  and  dreamed  of 
the  war ;  of  the  cruel  tragedy  which  had  extinguished  an 
ancient  line,  that  September  evening  fourteen  years  ago; 
of  his  own  ghastly  experience  between  the  lines  at  St. 
filoi ;  of  Maisie,  and  her  comment  on  his  scar ;  and  so 
on   from  one  random  memory  to  another,  till  thought 
grew  vague  in  the  immense  lassitude  which  came  upon 
him,  and  through  which  Jenny's  music  grew  as  indistinct 
as  the  rippling  of  a  brook.     .     .     .     He  woke   with  a 
start,  and  with  words  on  his  lips :     "No,  dear,  no :  not 
that."    Jenny  had  left  playing;  she  had  spun  round  on  the 
piano  stool  to   face  him,  her  hands   on  her   hips,   her 
small  ankles  crossed  below  her  opalescent  skirts. 
"You  were  asleep,  Mark." 
"Was  I?" 

"And  talking  in  your  sleep.     If  you  do  that  I  shall 
learn  all  your  secrets.     How  will  you  like  that?" 

"You  terrify  me."   Mark  yawned.     "What  was  that 
last  thing  you  were  playing?" 

"The  barcarolle  out  of  the  Contes  d'Hoffmann."   Sway- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  175 

ing  across  the  polished  floor  like  a  dancer,  her  Pompadour 
curls  and  long  slender  waist  emergent  out  of  a  mist  of 
gauze,  she  came  to  him  and  leaned  down  over  him  till 
her  long  lashes  brushed  his  cheek.  "Did  you  know  that 
you  talk  in  your  sleep,  Mark?" 

"Do  I?" 

"You  woke  me  up,  last  night." 

"So  sorry :  I'll  take  a  dose  of  quinine.  I  had  malarial 
fever  years  ago  in  China,  the  sort  of  thing  that  hangs 
about  you  forever,  and  now  and  then  in  autumn,  when 
the  nights  are  damp,  I  get  a  bit  of  a  temperature.  Er — 
no :  not  infectious,  Jenny.  Wasn't  that  what  you  were 
going  to  ask?" 

"Am  I  such  a  coward,  Mr.  Sturt?" 

"Pretty  fair."  Mark  grinned.  "Who  was  late  for 
Mass  last  Sunday  because  there  was  a  cow  in  the  short 
cut?  I  watched  you  from  the  terrace,  Jenny:  wasn't 
that  a  shame?  She  was  such  a  dear  old  moo-moo." 
Jenny  went  to  Mass  every  Sunday;  but  she  went  alone. 

"You  might  be  nice  to  Jenny  to-night,"  Mrs.  Essenden 
murmured,  enlacing  him  for  a  moment  in  her  arms,  "be- 
cause it's  our  last  night.  I'm  going  to  London  to-mor- 
row." 

"To  London !" 

"Yes ;  did  you  think  I  was  going  to  stay  here  forever  ? 
No,  no,  my  dear  Mark :  I  am  a  town  bird,  as  you  know, 
and  much  as  I  love  this  pretty  French  country  there 
comes  a  time  when  I  pine  for  my  native  streets.  Con- 
fess now — won't  you  rather  like  to  smell  a  London  fog 
again  ?" 

"Bless  her,  she's  turning  me  out !"  said  Mark,  amazed. 
"Are  you  tired  of  me,  Jenny?" 

"Not  tired  of  you.  Perhaps  a  little  tired  of — of  being 
in  love  with  you." 

"Well,  I'm  hanged  !"  said  Mark,  getting  up  and  stretch- 


176  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

ing  himself.  "This  is  rather  sudden.  You  might  have 
given  me  longer  warning!  But  that's  the  way  with  your 
fair  but  inconstant  sex:  to  use  a  novel  metaphor,  when 
they  tire  of  a  man  they  fling  him  aside  like  a  worn-out 
glove.  Amn't  I  poetical  to-night?  Kiss  me,  Jenny,  and 
let's  let  London  rip." 

He  advanced  towards  her.  But  Jenny,  slipping 
through  his  hands,  ran  away  into  the  embrasure  of  the 
window.  "No — you  can't  touch  me  here — not  where  the 
Countess  stood." 

Mark  stopped  dead,  arrested — not  for  the  first  time 
in  his  experience  of  Jenny — by  the  striking  of  a  deep 
fantastic  note  which  jarred  among  her  pretty  French 
harmonies.  "Jenny,  you  have  a  macabre  fancy.  Come 
away  from  the  window." 

"Non  .  .  .  Enfin,  c'est  fini  .  .  .  je  suis  a  bout  .  .  .  tu 
m'embetes  .  .  .  laisse-moi,  m'ami  .  .  ." 

Jenny  played  high. 

"Je  le  veux  bien!"  said  Mark  with  his  unexpected 
laugh.  In  one  swift  spring  he  caught  her  round  the  waist 
and  snatched  her  out  of  the  window.  "As  a  defensive 
weapon,  Jenny,  ghosts  are  overrated.  How  about  Lon- 
don now?" 

"Put  me  down!"  said  Jenny,  passive  but  with  flashing 
eyes.  Mark's  answer  was  to  shift  his  clasp,  so  that  she 
lay  at  full  length  across  his  arms,  the  slippers  falling 
from  her  feet.  "Don't  force  me  to  be  angry;  you  are 
my  guest." 

"Ah!  and  if  I  cared  two  straws  whether  you  were 
angry  or  not,  no  doubt  I  should  set  you  down.  But  you 
lie,  Jenny,  you  lie:  you're  not  a  bit  angry — you  like  it." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "You  make  me 
ashamed." 

"I  think  not,  Jenny." 

Mrs.  Essenden's  small  white  teeth  fastened  on  her  lip ; 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  177 

if  he  could  have  seen  her  he  would  have  known  his 
own  danger.  But  only  her  curls  were  visible,  and  a 
moment  later  her  arm  crept  round  his  neck.  "Mark,  my 
beloved  .  .  .  how  strong  you  are !  Oh,  have  your  own 
way  with  me — what  do  I  care?  I  am  only  a  woman, 
and  you  are  a  man.  .  .  ."  She  turned  in  his  arms  and 
clung  to  him  as  the  nymph  of  the  fountain  clung  to  the 
faun,  enlacing  him  in  the  perfume  of  her  disordered 
curls  and  flying  gauze.  "I  adore  you.  .  .  .  But  I  shall 
go  to  London  to-morrow  all  the  same." 

"And  leave  me?    No,  Jenny!" 

"Have  I  the  courage?  You  could  come  to  me  when- 
ever you  like." 

"Whew!"  said  Mark,  whistling  softly.  He  set  her 
down. 

"Come  and  see  you  in  London,  Jenny?  Of  course 
I  could.  But  where  will  you  be?  I'm  a  public  man, 
Jenny :  I  have  to  think  of  my  reputation.  Shall  you  stop 
at  an  hotel?" 

"Stop  at  an  hotel?  Of  course  not!  I  shall  be  in  my 
own  house.  Did  you  really  never  go  there  before — be- 
fore we  ran  away  together?  Why,  I  thought  you  must 
have  seen  it  in  poor  Freddy's  time."  She  knew  he  had 
not,  but  it  was  her  cue  to  seem  to  have  forgotten.  "It's 
a  quaint  little  spot  in  Green  Street,  near  the  Green  Park, 
quite  close  to  Westminster." 

Mark  did  not  answer.  He  had  made  no  definite  plans 
for  the  winter,  but  he  had  always  meant  to  break  with 
Jenny  when  he  left  the  chateau;  the  escapade  had  helped 
him  over  a  bad  time,  and  he  was  grateful,  but  after  all 
it  was  Jenny's  shikar,  and  by  the  strictest  code  of  honor 
such  a  liaison  can  be  broken  at  will.  He  had  never 
dreamed  of  carrying  it  on  in  England.  But  then  he 
had  not  thought  of  going  back  to  England  for  another 
month  or  six  weeks,  by  when  he  expected  to  have  had 


178  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

enough  of  Jenny.  He  was  not  ready  to  give  her  up  yet 
awhile.  And  yet  there  was,  as  he  had  said,  his  reputa- 
tion to  be  thought  of :  people  wink  at  a  holiday  indiscre- 
tion, but  an  homme  serieux  ought  not  to  let  himself  be 
entangled  in  any  permanent  folly.  Jenny  read  his  inde- 
cision and  struck  with  practiced  hand. 

"Oh,  no,  that  would  never,  never  do,"  she  said,  hopping 
on  one  foot  like  a  little  stork  to  put  her  slippers  on.  "I 
forgot  you  were  a  public  man,  mon  ami.  It  would  be  a 
great  to-do  if  it  came  to  the  ears  of  your  chiefs — Mr. 
Mallinson,  too,  so  Puritanical!  No,"  she  swayed  before 
him  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  holding  by  the  lapels  of  his 
coat,  "we  will  have  this  one  evening  more  and  then  we 
will  say  good-by  like  sober  people.  You  are  quite  range, 
are  you  not  ?  and  even  I,  sinner  as  I  am,  like  to  keep  my 
toquades  away  from  English  soil.  Perhaps  later  on  we 
will  arrange  a  second  little  honeymoon,  but  for  the  pres- 
ent, Monsieur,  we  shall  have  to  say  good-by." 

"Shall  we?"  said  Mark  slowly.  There  was  a  libertine 
glow  in  his  eyes  that  she  had  never  seen  there  before, 
and  the  line  was  drawn  deep  from  nostril  to  jaw.  "Sure 
you'll  find  it  so  easy  to  throw  me  over,  Jenny  ?  You  pur- 
sued me  to  France,  didn't  you?" 

"Cad !"  said  Jenny  tersely. 

"Oh,  quite.  But — are  you  sure  you  can  do  without 
me,  Jenny?" 

"Why  will  you  call  me  Jenny  every  time  you  speak  to 
me?" 

"Because  it's  a  pretty  name,  and  you're  a  pretty  girl, 
Jenny.  Answer  my  question." 

"I  didn't  listen  to  it." 

"Is  Jenny  sure  she  can  live  without  me?" 

"Quite,  quite  sure !"  Jenny  sang  out  with  a  little  peal 
of  laughter.  Mark,  who  had  expected  blushes,  turned 
rather  white;  however  little  he  cared  for  Jenny,  he  had 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  179 

always  flattered  himself  that  Jenny,  after  her  fashion, 
cared  for  him.  And  while  he  was  digesting  a  new  idea, 
Jenny  suddenly  ran  away.  Mark  cursed  his  own  care- 
lessness, but  he  was  too  late,  she  had  escaped  into  the 
hall  where  a  footman  was  waiting.  But  while  he  was 
angrily  reviewing  this  unexpected  turn  of  his  affairs, 
Jenny  stuck  her  head  round  the  door  again — her  little 
curly  head,  her  slender  shoulders  gleaming  through  the 
disorder  of  her  torn  laces.  "You  see  the  truth  is,"  she 
said,  "men  are  so  monotonous.  I  adore  you  forever — 
but  I'm  tired  to  death  of  you !" 

She  flew  off.  Sturt  followed,  abandoning  the  circum- 
spection which  he  had  habitually  practiced :  at  that  mo- 
ment he  desired  nothing  on  earth  but  to  bring  Jenny 
to  her  knees.  Did  she  take  him  for  a  second  Freddy 
Field?  .  .  .  Entrance  was  barred:  Mark  fell  back  de- 
feated after  an  interval  of  indiscretion,  to  which  Jenny 
vouchsafed  no  heed  beyond  the  derision  of  a  distant 
laugh.  In  his  own  room,  after  a  cup  of  coffee,  he  got 
some  sort  of  shaken  hold  on  himself  and  fell  asleep 
vowing  vengeance  on  Jenny  in  the  morning. 

In  the  morning  Jenny  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

f  <TT  TELL,  Henham,  how  are  you?  Everything  going 
V  V  on  as  usual,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,"  said  Henham.  He  added  after 
a  moment,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  sir,  if  I  may  say 
so.  Keeping  pretty  well,  I  hope?" 

"Hey?  Oh,  quite,  thanks,"  said  Mark  carelessly.  He 
stood  by  the  hall  table  turning  over  a  tray  of  cards. 
"Yes.  Any  letters  ?" 

"I  forwarded  them  up  to  Saturday,  sir.  The  others 
that  came  since  your  telegram  are  in  the  smoking-room. 
Mr.  Considine  called  last  Friday  to  get  your  address. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  would  have  wished  me  to  give 
it  him,  but  as  you  said  no  one  was  to  have  it  I  didn't. 
He  lef  this  note  for  you."  Mark  took  it.  "And  Father 
de  Trafford  came  round  the  day  before,  and  he  wanted 
your  address  too.  So  I  gave  it  him." 

"You  gave  it  him!"  Mark  swung  round  on  his  heel 
to  face  the  little  gray  man.  "Confound  you,  Henham! 
why  did  you  do  that?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you  told  me  once  I  was 
to  always  let  Father  de  Trafford  have  your  address, 
wherever  you  was,  whenever  he  wanted  it." 

"So  I  did.    Quite  right." 

Mark  passed  on  into  the  smoking-room,  and  Henham 
gave  a  little  jerk  of  the  head  as  he  watched  the  tall  fig- 
ure disappear.  "Now  what  have  you  been  up  to?"  he 
seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself.  Henham  knew,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say,  all  about  Mrs.  Essenden,  and 
could  have  given  his  master  details  of  her  career — in 

IPO 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  181 

fact,  Henham  and  Frank  Carter  were  members  of  the 
same  club;  he  did  not  disapprove  of  the  connection,  or 
at  least  he  had  not  done  so  up  to  the  time  of  Mark's 
return.  Now,  as  he  went  away  to  warm  Mark's  claret, 
the  shadow  of  perplexity  rested  on  his  face;  he  could 
not  quite  make  out  Mark's  manner.  "I  do  hope,"  he 
said  to  himself  as  he  got  Mark's  coffee  ready,  a  task 
never  deputed  to  the  cook's  hand,  "we  shan't  have  any 
nonsense  about  marryin'  her.  We're  a  bit  soft  where 
there's  a  lady  in  the  case — yes,  we  are.  But  I  don't 
think  we're  soft  enough  to  marry  one  of  her  sort.  I 
fancy  we  should  draw  the  line  at  takin'  her  into  the 
family." 

Mark  warmed  himself  at  the  fire,  and  looked  round 
the  room  with  the  freshened  observation  of  the  traveler 
who  has  been  away  a  long  time.  He  was  struck  by  the 
change  of  weather,  late  summer  to  early  winter;  three 
nights  ago  he  had  sat  with  Jenny  among  roses  by  moon- 
light, but  here  in  London  there  was  frost  in  the  air  and 
the  trees  in  the  Park  were  stripped.  He  had  been  in 
France  only  six  weeks,  but  the  time  seemed  longer  be- 
cause of  this  turn  of  the  seasons.  He  was  struck  no  less 
by  the  change  in  the  character  of  his  surroundings.  Lov- 
ing light  and  space,  and  disdainful  of  ornament,  Jenny 
had  left  the  chateau  untouched  in  its  age-old  beauty  and 
severity,  the  Classic  setting  of  a  Classic  race;  and  the 
transition  to  the  dark  shabby  comfort  of  Park  Court 
was  not  altogether  agreeable. 

Mark's  dwelling  was  in  a  nook  off  Victoria  Street, 
high  up,  overlooking  a  medley  of  roofs  and  chimneys; 
very  unlike  those  lovely  rooms  near  the  river  which 
Lawrence  had  filled  with  the  spoil  of  his  wanderings. 
Mark,  always  hard-worked  and  in  a  hurry,  had  taken 
over  a  furnished  flat  which  he  left  pretty  much  as  it 
stood.  A  Turkey  carpet,  a  flowered  paper  of  his  pre- 


182  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

decessor's  choice,  and  a  Victorian  "suite"  in  leather  and 
mahogany  were  good  enough  for  him,  and  there  was 
little  to  represent  his  own  tastes  except  a  stand  of 
weapons  which  occupied  the  greater  part  of  one  wall, 
and  a  bookcase  that  ran  the  length  of  the  other.  Item,  a 
"Sargent"  portrait  of  Mr.  Sturt  in  riding  dress,  startlingly 
life-like  in  its  vigorous  pose,  ruddy  color,  and  jeering 
smile ;  but  this  by  the  way.  Many  a  time  Mark  had  re- 
turned to  the  flat  after  longer  wanderings  with  all  the 
satisfaction  with  which  a  man  gets  into  an  old  coat  or 
old  slippers.  To-night,  for  the  first  time,  he  did  not  like 
it.  Why  ?  There  was  no  dust  or  disorder ;  the  fire  was 
burning  merrily,  his  big  chair  was  drawn  up  in  his  own 
corner,  a  couple  of  evening  papers  lay  within  arm's  length, 
there  were  chrysanthemums  on  the  table,  and  Sobranies 
in  their  cool  china  box.  Yet — was  the  room  ugly,  after 
all,  or  was  it  lonely?  Mark  tried  in  fancy  to  seat  Mrs. 
Essenden  in  one  of  those  leather  chairs.  He  smiled; 
this  was  no  frame  for  Jenny.  Mark  leaned  his  arm 
along  the  chimney-piece  and  looked  down  into  the  fire. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  missed  Jenny? 

Jenny  was  in  Green  Street,  no  doubt,  settling  in.  He 
had  not  seen  or  heard  of  her  since  the  scene  of  the  night 
before  last,  except  for  a  note  which  Carter  brought  in 
with  his  breakfast ;  a  strange  note,  Jenny  all  over,  a  piece 
of  formal  courtesy  begging  him  to  stay  on  at  the  chateau 
as  long  as  he  liked,  followed  by  a  Gallicism  which  made 
the  blood  burn  in  his  cheek  and  haunted  him  across  the 
Channel.  He  had  not  stayed  on  at  the  chateau ;  he  had 
waited  one  night  at  Duclair  to  collect  his  letters ;  then 
home  by  Dieppe  and  Newhaven  in  a  blinding  gale  of 
rain.  As  he  tramped  the  deck  of  the  Rouen  Mark's  mind 
was  as  chaotic  as  the  tumbling  wintry  sea.  Uppermost 
in  it  then  and  now  was  a  desire  to  score  off  Jenny.  The 
wind  wailed  round  the  high  flat,  a  gust  of  rain  lashed 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  133 

the  windows.  He  could  be  with  her  in  twenty  minutes. 
"She  won't  want  me  to-night,"  Mark  said  to  himself. 
"It  will  take  her  more  than  twenty- four  hours  to  unpack 
herself.  But  little  Jennies  can't  have  all  they  want.  Sup~ 
pose  I  go  round  for  an  hour  and  make  her  give  me  some 
dinner?  Compromising!  After  all,  what's  the  odds? 
Who  cares?  My  wife?"  He  laughed.  "If  my  wife 
tears  about  the  country  with  young  Forester,  what's  the 
odds  if  I  dine  with  Jenny  Essenden?"  he  reflected  sav- 
agely. 

But  as  he  raised  his  head  he  caught  sight  of  his  own 
reflection  in  the  glass.  "Hallo !"  he  said  aloud.  He  had 
seen  those  lines  about  other  men's  mouths,  and  he  knew 
well  enough  what  they  meant.  He  looked  into  his  own 
eyes  as  if  they  had  been  those  of  a  stranger.  "No,"  he 
said.  "Curse  you,  no.  Not  that.  Oh,  good  heavens! 
what  am  I  doing?  I'll  go  and  see  the  Ferriers ;  no,  they're 
not  up  yet.  Considine,  then."  He  opened  his  cousin's 
note,  but  Considine  Sturt  had  no  permanent  footing  in 
town,  and  with  characteristic  carelessness  had  forgotten 
to  put  an  address.  "De  Trafford?  Can't,  after  Hen- 
ham's  giving  me  away.  Bridge  at  a  club  ?"  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "I  wish  Lawrence  were  in  London."  As 
the  wish  framed  itself  he  read  in  it  the  measure  of  his 
own  weakness.  "Well,  upon  my  word,  what  am  I  com- 
ing to?  Jenny,  you  little  jade,  I  swear  I  won't  go  near 
you  to-night.  I'll  turn  in  and  do  some  work.  There's 
Mallinson's  latest  White  Paper,  that  ought  to  keep  me 
going  for  a  bit."  He  dropped  into  a  chair  and  began  to 
read  closely. 

Twenty  minutes  later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Green 
Street. 

To  be  conscious  of  mortal  weakness,  to  be  resolved  to 
break  loose  from  it,  and  to  fail  over  and  over  again  is  a 


184  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

frame  of  mind  and  life  of  which  many  men,  at  one  time 
or  another,  gain  experience.  Some  fail  from  pure  want 
of  stamina,  from  pure  inability  to  govern  their  actions 
by  their  will;  others — and  in  this  class  every  child  of 
man  is  liable  to  find  himself — because  in  the  given  case 
the  will  is  divided.  This  was  Mark's  position  that  au- 
tumn. He  had  always  meant  to  renounce  Jenny,  but  it 
was  to  be  at  his  own  choice  of  time,  and  Jenny  by  fore- 
stalling him  had  called  into  play  all  the  uncivilized  in- 
stincts of  the  hunter  after  his  quarry.  To  put  it  baldly, 
he  had  meant  to  drop  Jenny  when  he  grew  tired  of  her, 
and  it  was  the  flick  of  a  whip  across  his  fighting  temper 
that  the  little  jade  should  presume  to  grow  tired  of  him. 
More  somber  and  more  dangerous  still,  he  was  jealous. 
He  did  not  love  Mrs.  Essenden,  he  did  not  respect  her — 
not  at  all,  not  so  much  as  she  deserved ;  it  was  the  purely 
physical  jealousy  of  the  dominant  male;  but  it  ate  into 
his  nerves.  At  Cleres  he  had  been  safe,  but  in  London 
Jenny  had  many  friends.  There  was  a  harmless  man 
about  town  named  Horton,  a  tall,  fair,  decadent  fellow, 
a  frequenter  of  Green  Street  and  similar  purlieus,  to 
whom  Mark  was  always  rigidly  civil,  but  "Hanged  if  I 
think  your  cousin  likes  me !"  said  Horton  with  his  noise- 
less laugh  to  Considirre  Sturt. 

Shortly  after  this  incident  Considine  dropped  in  one 
evening  at  Park  Court,  where  he  found  Mark  dressed 
and  on  the  point  of  going  out.  Considine,  a  small,  dark, 
slender  Irishman,  nearly  as  handsome  as  Lawrence  but 
in  miniature,  threw  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
"You're  in  a  hurry — it's  early  yet.  Do  you  dine  at  the 
Verneys?  Because  I  am  going  there  myself  and  I  can 
take  you  on." 

"I  am  dining  out,  but  not  at  the  Verneys." 
"In  Green  Street  ?"    Considine  cocked  a  deliberate  eye- 
brow.    "Felicitations.     The  lady  is  charming." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  185 

"You  think  so?" 

"You're  not  alone  in  thinking  so,"  Considine  retorted. 
"Well,  well,  I  hope  she  gives  you  a  good  dinner.  Horton 
swears  she  has  the  same  chef  she  had  in  Freddy  Field's 
day — or  was  it  Lessingham  he  said?  I  forget  what  hap- 
pened to  Lessingham.  Went  under,  didn't  he?  Drink 
or  drugs." 

"Can't  say,"  said  Mark,  unmoved.  "I'm  afraid  I'm 
not  a  Who's  Who  like  Horton." 

"Horton  isn't  a  bad  chap,"  said  Considine,  rearrang- 
ing his  buttonhole.  "He's  fearfully  nervous  of  you. 
Says  you  look  at  him  like  an  injured  husband.  I  beg 
your  pardon."  Mark  had  consigned  Considine  to  that 
region  whose  streets  are  paved  by  the  well-intentioned. 
"Come,  come,"  said  Considine,  "that's  putting  the  saddle 
on  the  wrong  leg.  After  you,  my  boy." 

"You  confounded  little  Irishman,"  said  Mark,  laugh- 
ing against  his  will,  "what  do  you  want?" 

"Sure  I  thought  you  were  out  for  congratulations. 
No,  now,  hit  a  man  your  own  size !"  as  Mark  stood  over 
him.  "If  you're  so  shy  about  it  why  do  you  put  it  in 
the  papers?" 

"Put  what  in  the  papers?" 

"Why,  your  marriage,  of  course,"  said  Considine,  arch- 
ing his  perfectly  formed  eyebrows.  "Don't  tell  me  it's 
off,  when  I've  just  spent  my  last  tenner  on  a  teapot?" 

"My— what?" 

Considine  pulled  a  paper  out  of  his  pocket  and  pointed 
to  a  marked  paragraph.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't 
put  that  in  yourself?" 

Mark  read  the  paragraph ;  it  was  one  of  a  series  headed 
"A  Little  Bird  Tells  Me  That"— and  the  report  of  the 
particular  little  bird  was  that  a  certain  well-known  M.P., 
tired  of  his  wanderings  in  cold  climates,  was  going  to 
settle  down  to  domestic  bliss  "in  a  snug  little  house  not 


186  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

far  from  Green  Street,  where  visitors  always  get  a  warm 
welcome,  and  we  wish  him  joy,  but  oh,  dear,  what  will 
Mrs.  Grundy  say?" 

"Do  you  know,  I  thought  it  wasn't  quite  your  style," 
observed  Considine  placidly,  as  Mark  thrust  the  horrible 
little  sheet  into  the  fire. 

"Did  you  come  here  to  show  me  this,  Considine?" 

"Thought  you  might  like  to  see  it." 

"Thanks.  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  more  genial  at  the  out- 
set. What  infernal  cheek!  Of  course  I  can't  take  any 
step.  Can't  even  flog  the  editor.  Shouldn't  I  like  to, 
though !"  Mark  added  rather  boyishly. 

"H'm-m-m." 

"What  now?" 

"Well,  I  admit,"  said  Considine,  contemplating  his 
now  perfect  buttonhole,  "that  the  style  of  the  commu- 
nique isn't  in  faultless  taste.  But  if  you  were  to  flog  all 
the  fellows  who  are  saying  it  you  would  have  your  hands 
full." 

"On  my  word,  one's  friends  are  very  obliging!" 

"That  they  are !    Trust  them  for  that." 

"But  you  didn't  believe  it?"  Considine  was  silent. 
"Good  heavens!  you  surely  know  me  better — ?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Mark,  you've  been  uncommonly  indis- 
creet. I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  affairs,  but  if  it's 
true  that  you  pay  the  fair  Jenny's  bills,  which  is  what 
I  never  heard  of  her  letting  any  other  man  do " 

"Fair  and  softly,"  Mark  said.  "This  is  poisonous 
gossip.  I  never  dreamed  of  marrying  Mrs.  Essenden.  I 
should  never  marry  a  woman  who  let  me  pay  her  bills." 

"Nor  should  I.  That's  why  I  remain  a  melancholy 
bachelor."  Considine  winked  at  him.  "All  the  same, 
I  can't,  in  that  case,  understand  your  feeling  for  the  lady. 
You  don't,  by  any  chance,  think  it  your  mission  to  re- 
habilitate the  victim  of  a  harsh  social  system?" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  187 

Mark  grinned.     "Not  precisely." 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  ask  if  you  don't  think  you're 
playing  the  fool?" 

Mark  did  not  answer.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 
a  tacit  assent  which  struck  a  spark  of  gravity  out  of 
Considine's  whimsical  impertinence. 

"Sick  of  being  alone,  is  that  it?  You  ought  to  marry. 
Why  didn't  you  cut  in  at  Shotton  and  spoil  Forester's 
game?"  Mark  started  under  the  familiar  pinprick. 
"Lawrence  swears  you  had  a  sporting  chance.  How- 
ever, that's  off  now,  by  what  I  hear;  Harry's  the  happy 
man."  Mark  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
kicked  the  brands  together;  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
keep  an  unmoved  face.  His  pride  was  cruelly  wounded. 
"But  there  are  lots  of  other  nice  women  going,"  Consi- 
dine  pursued.  "Really  I  should  cut  Green  Street  if  I 
were  you.  It  isn't  respectable.  One  Lawrence  is  enough 
in  a  family.  Besides,  to  speak  seriously,  you're  not  Law- 
rence ;  you've  a  big  part  to  play."  A  jerk  of  the  head  in- 
dicated the  mocking  portrait  of  Arthur  Sturt.  "He  be- 
lieved in  you." 

"He?  he  cared  more  for  Lawrence's  little  finger  than 
for  all  my  fourteen  stone." 

"Not  latterly.  Oh,  I  don't  say  he  didn't  like  Law- 
rence better!  but  he  had  more  faith  in  you.  Last  time 
I  was  at  Longstone  Edge,  the  summer  he  died,  he  said 
to  me,  'Lawrence  will  do  nothing.  The  women  will  suck 
him  dry.  But  Mark  will  make  his  name.'  " 

"What  about  Watson,  and  Garden,  and  Delany  ?"  Mark 
named  some  well-known  members  of  the  Liberal  party 
who  had  not  escaped  scandal.     "Or  Sheddon,  a  married 
man ;  his  constituents  haven't  shot  him  out  yet." 
"They  are  not  in  office." 
"Nor  am  I." 
"You  could  be,  if  you  liked." 


188  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"You  mean  well,  Considine." 

Considine  Sturt  had  a  peculiar  grimace.  "I  do,  I 
mean  extremely  well,  but  I've  done  pretty  badly.  Eh, 
old  Mark?  I  wish  Lawrence  were  at  home.  Well, 
you're  fretting  to  be  off,  so  I  won't  keep  you."  He  rose. 
"Give  my  love  to  your  enchantress,  she's  an  old  flame  of 
mine."  He  was  thunderstruck  by  the  uncontrollable  al- 
teration in  Mark's  features.  "Powers  above,  I  didn't 
mean  that!"  Mark  was  speechless.  "Ah,  now,  if  that's 
the  way  you  feel  about  it,  you're  harder  hit  than  I 
thought." 

"Good  night." 

Considine,  shocked  into  earnestness,  laid  his  hand  on 
Mark's  arm.  "I  say,  I've  known  you  all  your  life — will 
you  let  me  take  a  liberty?  If  you  don't  jolly  well  mind 
what  you're  doing,  old  man,  you'll  go  under  like  Lessing- 
ham  did.  He  was  mad  on  Jenny,  mortgaged  every  stick 
and  stone;  and  the  night  he  left  England  I  saw  her  at 
the  opera  in  Freddy  Field's  box.  You  fellows  that  ideal- 
ize women,  you  never  know  where  you  are  with  the  Es- 
senden  type.  I'd  lay  any  odds  she  sent  that  par.  to  Ad- 
derley's  herself.  I'm  not  qualified  to  talk  morality,  and 
I'm  not  clever  like  you  are,  but  I've  forgotten  more  about 
women  than  you  ever  knew,  and  I  do  beg  of  you,  Mark, 
to  steer  clear  of  that  little  in  Green  Street." 

Mark  did  not  quarrel  with  the  term  applied  to  Mrs. 
Essenden,  though  its  coarse  vigor  rang  strange  from 
Considine's  fastidious  lips.  He  gathered  up  his  hat  and 
coat  and  drew  on  his  gloves  as  he  strolled  to  the  door. 
"Good  man,"  he  said  gently.  "Well,  I  must  be  off  now, 
but  Henham  will  look  after  you.  Have  a  Sobranie,  won't 
you?  I  remember  you  like  them." 

Considine  sat  on  by  the  fire.  He  felt  like  a  snubbed 
schoolboy,  but  he  bore  no  grudge.  In  the  Sturt  family, 
as  among  many  Catholic  families  in  England,  there  was 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  189 

a  good  deal  of  clan  feeling,  and  Considine,  sagacious 
and  affectionate,  grieved  for  his  cousin's  plight.  Mark's 
look  haunted  him — the  look  of  a  man  drowning  in  deep 
water.  "And  I  can't  pull  him  out.  I  don't  carry  big 
enough  guns,"  Considine  reflected,  lucidly  Irish.  "But  I 
wonder " 

Mark  was  in  deep  water.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  it — 
aware  that  he  was  living  too  fast  in  more  ways  than  one 
— but,  though  he  sickened  in  the  night  watches,  there 
was  no  will  left  in  him  to  resist  Jenny.  To  resist  Jenny  ? 
Jenny  never  appealed  to  him — except  to  keep  away.  An 
onlooker  would  have  thought  that  he  held  her  by  right 
of  conquest.  He  came  and  went  in  Green  Street  like 
the  master  of  the  house,  and  like  a  master  who  had 
small  respect  for  its  mistress;  and  when  Jenny  stormed 
he  took  his  own  way  to  quiet  her.  It  was  significant  of 
a  change  in  their  relations  that  he  was  no  longer  her 
guest;  after  his  first  visit  to  Green  Street  he  told  her 
that  for  the  present,  so  long  as  their  connection  lasted, 
he  should  pay  the  rent  of  the  house  and  the  salaries  of 
the  servants.  "No  one  has  ever  done  that  for  me," 
panted  Jenny,  and  strange  to  say  this  was  the  truth.  "I 
shall  do  it,  however,"  Mark  replied,  "or  I  shan't  come 
here  any  more.  And  I've  every  intention  of  coming  here, 
Jenny,  and  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  didn't — 
what?" 

Jenny  raged,  and  trembled,  and  was  torn  by  twenty 
passions,  in  which  the  lust  of  revenge  predominated. 
She  acted  the  woman  beaten  down  and  humbled,  and 
gave  him  all  the  illegitimate  sweets  of  a  forced  surren- 
der; and  when  he  went  away  she  laughed  at  him — yes, 
and  let  her  maid  laugh  at  him.  "Mon  Dieu  comme  il  est 
drole  ce  gros  monsieur!"  Louise  would  say,  holding  up 
her  hands:  "et  ga  ne  derange  pas  madame?  si  j'etais 


190  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

madame  je  1'enverrais  promener,  moi — mais  quand  on 
aime  a  distraction — hein?  pas  moyen  de  s'en  tirer."  "Je 
1'enverrai  promener,  moi,"  said  Jenny,  fastening  her  teeth 
on  her  lip  with  the  sudden  little  snarl  of  a  teased  cat, 
"Ah,  oui!  mais  pas  encore  .  .  .  non,  non,  ma  fille.  At- 
tends que  je  lui  aie  plonge  mon  poignard  dans  le  coeur !" 

Meanwhile  London  was  filling  up  again,  and  externally 
Mark's  life  resumed  more  or  less  its  usual  form.  Not 
altogether,  however.  Lawrence  of  course  was  still  away; 
an  occasional  scribble  from  a  township  off  the  line  of 
march  told  of  his  doings,  and  never  failed  to  rouse  in 
Mark  vain  regrets  that  he  had  not  taken  his  brother's 
advice  and  gone  to  Colorado.  Once  in  a  fit  of  frank- 
ness he  owned  as  much  in  writing  back.  "I  could  wish 
I'd  taken  your  advice.  You  were  in  every  way  right. 
But  if  a  man  elects  to  be  a  silly  ass  he  must  pay  for  it." 
He  could  see  Lawrence  reading  those  words  perhaps  by 
matchlight,  and  raising  his  eyebrows  over  them  with  a 
twist  of  his  cynical  delicate  lips.  A  second  friend  of 
Mark's  might  as  well  have  been  in  Colorado  for  all  he 
saw  of  him ;  this  was  Father  de  Trafford,  who  had  never 
come  to  the  flat  since  the  night  when  Henham  gave  him 
Mark's  address  at  the  chateau.  Miss  Archdale — it  was 
still  as  Maisie  Archdale  that  Mark  thought  of  her — 
was  staying  in  Norfolk.  Other  houses,  where  in  previous 
years  Mark  had  been  admitted  as  an  intimate,  gave  him 
this  winter  a  less  cordial  welcome;  others  again,  where 
manners  were  easy,  dispatched  more  frequent  invita- 
tions, and  in  a  more  confident  style. 

"Let's  see,  who's  coming  to  us  for  Christmas  besides 
our  own  people?"  asked  Charles  Ferrier,  leaning  over 
his  wife  at  her  writing-table  and  ruffling  up  her  curly 
fair  hair. 

Dodo  ran  over  a  few  names.  "And  Mr.  Mallinson — 
he  is  due  to-morrow ;  and  I  think  Mark  Sturt.  He  hasn't 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  191 

definitely  accepted,  but  I  asked  him  months  ago.  I  was 
going  to  write  to  him  to-day." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  will  accept." 

"Why?"  Dodo  asked,  wheeling  round  on  her  chair 
like  a  flash. 

"Been  going  the  pace  a  bit.  Generally  supposed  to 
be  making  rather  a  fool  of  himself." 

"I  knew  it!"  said  Dodo.  "I  met  him  in  the  Row  the 
other  day  and  reviled  him  for  not  coming  to  see  me,  and 
I  knew  by  his  eyes  that  there  was  something  wrong. 
Tell  me  about  it,  Charles.  Who  is  she?"  Ferrier  pre- 
served a  discreet  silence.  "Oh,  dear  boy,  don't  be  silly !" 
said  his  wife.  "In  the  first  place,  if  it's  all  over  London 
to-day  it  will  be  all  over  Hampshire  to-morrow,  and  I'd 
rather  know  the  rights  of  the  case  than  the  wrongs.  Sec- 
ondly, I'm  very,  very  fond  of  Mark,  and  if  he  is  in  a 
mess  I  vote  we  get  him  out  of  it." 

"  'Fraid  we  can't  do  that,  darling.  It'll  have  to  run 
its  course." 

"Men  always  say  that.    Who  is  she  ?" 

"A  Mrs.  Essenden." 

"In  or  out?" 

"Out  and  out.  Surely  you've  heard  her  name — Jenny 
Essenden  ?" 

"Oh-h."  Dodo  primmed  her  lips  to  a  whistle.  "That 
woman.  I  remember.  The  Fields  were  furious,  they 
routed  her  once,  but  she  came  back,  and  she  was  alone 
with  Freddy  when  he  died.  Well,  I  dare  say  poor  Freddy 
would  rather  have  had  her  than  anybody  else.  I  hate 
Mrs.  Field,  I  wouldn't  a  bit  like  to  have  her  near  me  when 
I  was  dying,  she  looks  like  a  jet  mausoleum  in  a  bonnet. 
Freddy  hadn't  any  money  of  his  own  either,  so  if  that 
were  all  it  would  be  rather  to  Mrs.  Essenden's  credit. 
But  if  I  remember  rightly  Freddy  wasn't  the  first?" 

"Not  by  long  chalks,"  said  Ferrier  dryly.     "And  un- 


192  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

luckily  you  see  he  wasn't  the  last  either.     I  only  hope 
Sturt  won't  be  green  enough  to  marry  her." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  Dodo.  "Idiot,  why  do  you 
laugh?  If — if  the  mischief  weren't  done  it  would  be 
different,  but  I  hate  whitewash.  And  what  would  be- 
come of  his  career,  if  he  did?  Poor  Mark!  it's  bad 
enough  already,  because  people  nowadays  mind  that  sort 
of  thing  so  much  more  than  they  used  to;  if  it  gets  wind 
in  his  constituency  one  never  knows  what  may  happen. 
I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  it's  true?" 

"Not  the  remotest.  In  fact  Horton  says  he's  running 
the  establishment,  so  that  it  must  be  fairly  serious.  She 
has,  or  had,  a  house  of  her  own  in  Green  Street,  but 
Horton  swears  Mark  pays." 

"Did  Mark  tell  him  so?"  Dodo's  tone  was  skeptical. 

"No,  I  rather  gather  that  the  woman  told  him  so  her- 
self." 

"Would  she  tell  Mr.  Horton  a  thing  like  that  ?  Why 
should  she?  It  sounds  just  a  made-up  bit  of  scandal, 
that  last.  Somehow  I  can't  see  Mark  mixed  up  in  this 
sort  of  thing — not  seriously;  I  should  have  thought  he 
was  too — too  fastidious  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  of 
that  class."  Her  husband  smiled.  "Ah !  you  mean  that 
that  isn't  a  man's  point  of  view.  Dear  child,  I  know  it; 
but  look  at  the  risk!  One  can't  see  Mark  taking  that 
risk  unless  he  were  more  or  less  in  love.  He's  a  Roman 
Catholic,  too." 

Ferrier  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She's  a  very  pretty 
woman.  I  told  you  Sturt  was  making  an  idiot  of  him- 
self." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  him  about  it  ?" 

"I?    Good  Lord,  no!" 

"No,  no — I  mean,  does  he  afficher  himself  with  her? 
Does  he  talk  of  it,  or  take  her  about  in  public?" 

"Oh,   I   see  your  point — no,    really,   the   information 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  193 

comes,  as  I  understand,  all  from  the  female;  she  gives 
the  show  away  with  both  hands.  But  it's  true  enough; 
Horton  dined  with  her  one  night  when  Sturt  was  there, 
and — well,  really,  darling,  I  can't  give  you  chapter  and 
verse,  but  Horton  said  he  was  obviously  the  master  of 
the  house." 

"What's  she  like?  I  suppose  you  know  her  by  sight: 
oh,  perhaps  you've  dined  with  her  too,  like  Mr.  Hor- 
ton?" 

"Er — no,"  said  Ferrier,  winding  one  of  his  wife's  curls 
round  his  finger.     "I've  never  spoken  to  her,  that  I  re- 
member.   Yes,  I  have,  by  Jove !    I  met  her  once  at  Good- 
wood with   Morris   Frere.     She  was  very  pretty  then, 
and  quite  young;  quiet  clothes,  quiet  manners.     She  was 
a  country  parson's  daughter,  I  believe." 
"Like  me.     I  wish  I  knew  her." 
"Why  the  devil—?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Dodo,  rising  impatiently. 
"Sixpence,  please.  Yes,  you  did,  you  said  devil."  She 
shook  the  missionary  box  under  Ferrier's  nose.  "I've 
always  wanted  to  know  a  woman  who  had  got  right  over 
the  fence:  not  a  Maggie  Frere,  who  only  put  one  leg 
over  and  got  back  again,  but  one  of  the  real  wrong  set — 
the  Jenny  Essendens  of  London.  It's  a  handicap  for  us, 
you  see,  that  we  never  know  what  we're  fighting." 

"I  wouldn't  try  to  fight  Jenny  Essenden,  darling,  if  I 
were  you.  Lea.ve  her  alone;  and  leave  Sturt  alone,  too. 
He'll  drop  it  before  long — sure  to ;  he'll  get  tired  of  her, 
or  she'll  get  tired  of  him.  It's  probably  only  a  casual 
aberration,  an  outcrop  of  the  same  sort  of  streak  Law- 
rence Sturt  has  in  him.  But  doa't  you  meddle.  You 
won't  do  any  good." 

"N-no,"  said  Dodo  reluctantly:  "but  all  the  same,  if 
you  don't  mind,  I  think  I'll  try  to  get  hold  of  him  for 
Christmas." 


194  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"No,  don't,  dear." 

"Why  not?"  Ferrier  was  silent.  "Charles,  is  there 
anything  more?" 

"Er — yes :  if  you  will  have  it.  I  don't  care  to  have  to 
watch  a  man  at  table  in  my  own  house,  Dodo." 

"Mark  Sturt?  You  mean — ?  I  don't  believe  it.  They 
say  that  of  every  one!" 

"I've  seen  it." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Savoy,  the  night  I  dined  with  Haynes.  As 
we  left  he  was  coming  out  of  a  private  room  with  two  or 
three  other  men:  not  drunk,  I  don't  say  that,  whatever 
Haynes  may  swear,  but  far  enough  gone  to  be  rowdy. 
They  were  expostulating  with  a  waiter.  Haynes  and  I 
fled." 

"Oh!"  said  Dodo.  Tears  of  grief  and  indignation 
brimmed  her  eyes,  but  she  dashed*them  away  and  slipped 
from  her  husband's  arm.  "Oh,  my  poor  old  Mark !  Oh, 
and  you  want  me  to  let  him  go! — Charles,  I  shall  write 
to  him  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHOTTON,  December  22. 

MY  DEAR  MARK, 
Have  you  any  hazy  recollection  of  the  fact  that 
I  asked  you  to  come  to  us  for  Christmas?  You  never 
said  yes  or  no,  and  I  have  seen  so  little  of  you  lately 
that  I  haven't  had  a  chance  of  settling  with  you,  but  if 
you  will  come — do  come ! — Charles  and  I  and  Terry  will 
do  our  best  to  make  you  happy.  It  will  be  the  most  awful 
infliction  you  can  possibly  imagine,  a  real  old-fashioned 
country  Christmas,  turkey  and  plum  pudding  and  Dumb 
Crambo  in  the  nursery.  You  are  so  tall,  you  will  be 
most  helpful  in  the  decorations.  Mr.  Mallinson  is  com- 
ing, also  some  of  our  own  people,  and  one  or  two  others. 
I  should  love  you  to  see  Mr.  Mallinson  playing  Dumb 
Crambo.  Dearest  Mark,  you  aren't  going  to  forget  old 
friends,  are  you?  They  never  forget  you. 

Yours  always, 

DODO  FERRIER. 

Mark  was  breakfasting  by  himself  in  Green  Street 
when  this  letter  reached  him — Jenny  was  never  down 
before  eleven — and  when  he  had  read  it  he  leaned  his 
arm.  on  the  table  and  dropped  his  forehead  on  his  hand. 
He  looked  exhausted,  and  worse  than  exhausted;  his 
features  were  beginning  to  wear  the  stamp  of  deteriora- 
tion. He  used  to  think  back  now  and  then  over  the 
events  of  the  past  month  or  two,  and  wonder  how  they 
had  all  come  about,,  and  what  Jenny  had  done  to  him. 
A  long  way  off  seemed  the  nights  when  he  had  slept  un- 
der the  trees  at  Ushant.  He  had  begun  to  wonder  why 

195 


196  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

he  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  refuse  what  the  gods  of- 
fered him;  and  there  was  enough  left  in  him  of  his  old 
self  to  recognize  Jenny's  destructive  influence  in  that 
changed  point  of  view. 

His  Christmas  plans  were  still  vague,  for  a  simple 
reason  ;  Jenny  had  maneuvered  to  get  him  to  spend  Christ- 
mas with  her  in  Paris,  and  in  doing  so  had  inadvertently 
struck  against  a  force  with  which  she  had  not  reckoned 
— the  strong,  secret  force  of  religious  feeling.  Some 
element  in  Mark's  very  bones  rebelled  against  a  Christ- 
mas spent  with  Jenny.  Unacknowedged  instincts  sprang 
up  in  him  demanding  a  season,  however  brief,  of  clean- 
ness and  peace  of  mind.  Once  and  again  he  thought  of 
going  to  de  Trafford — as  a  man  to  his  friend,  not  as 
penitent  to  confessor — but  by  now  he  knew  his  own 
weakness,  and  with  bitter  self-disgust  he  owned  that  he 
was  capable,  if  Jenny  stayed  in  town — and  she  would  not 
go  to  Paris  by  herself — of  coming  straight  back  from 
de  Trafford  to  Green  Street.  Better  keep  clear  of  the 
priest  altogether  than  so  profane  his  own  soul.  But  he 
longed — how  he  longed! — to  get  away  from  Jenny  for 
a  season. 

Dodo's  letter  came  to  him  in  his  distress  and  weak- 
ness like  the  clasp  of  a  friendly  hand.  He  rose  straight 
from  the  breakfast  table  and  went  to  Jenny's  desk ;  there 
he  hesitated.  What  could  it  seem  but  a  deliberate  insult 
if  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Ferrier  on  Jenny's  note-paper?  But 
he  had  no  other  at  hand,  and  bitter  experience  warned 
him  that  he  had  better  commit  himself  before  his  im- 
pulse failed;  and  what  did  it  signify  after  all?  Did  not 
every  line  of  Dodo's  letter  prove  that  she  knew  what 
was  in  fact  common  knowledge?  Mark,  whose  eyes 
were  keen  even  when  slightly  grises  with  fatigue  and 
champagne,  had  recognized  Ferrier  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  Savoy.  He  took  a  sheet  of  Jenny's  paper  stamped 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  197 

with  Jenny's  address,  and  wrote  his  reply  standing  at 
Jenny's  little  rosewood  desk. 

19,  GREEN  STREET, 
WESTMINSTER,  S.  W.  1. 
Tuesday. 
Thank  you,  I  will  come  to-morrow. 

O.  M.  STURT. 

"Wire  me  off,  if  you  like,  after  that,"  he  said  to  him- 
self with  a  smile  which  softened  his  heavy  eyes ;  and  he 
went  straight  out  into  the  street  and  posted  the  letter. 
He  did  not  return  to  the  house,  and  next  day  Jenny  got 
a  curt  note  telling  her  that  he  was  gone  to  spend  Christ- 
mas in  "the  country.  By  way  of  consolation,  and  because 
he  knew  that  he  was  treating  her  badly,  he  sent  her  also 
a  ruby  pendant,  and  a  check,  with  a  line  of  writing: 
"Make  what  use  you  like  of  the  enclosed."  He  smiled 
into  his  mustache  as  he  set  his  name  to  this  broad  absolu- 
tion. What  if  Jenny's  liking  covered  Christmas  at  the 
Bristol  with  Horton? 

He  reached  Shotton  by  four  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve ; 
and  walked  up  from  the  station,  the  better  part  of  two 
miles  along  a  quiet  country  road.  No  sooner  had  he 
stepped  out  on  the  platform  than  there  came  on  him  the 
same  sense  of  refreshment  as  had  come  on  him  at  Ushant ; 
though  there  was  an  immense  difference  between  the 
illumination  of  that  golden  sunset  and  the  stealing  twi- 
light of  'December.  Unlit  save  for  a  streak  or  two  of 
sand-color  and  argent  in  the  west,  a  fell  of  cloud,  gray 
overshot  with  brown,  lay  in  bank  after  bank  immovable 
from  pole  to  pole,  and  under  it  a  north  wind  blew  cold 
and  pure  through  the  stripped  brown  woods  and  over 
the  matted  and  faded  fields.  Mark  never  wore  an  over- 
coat, and  when  he  first  left  the  train  he  shivered,  but 


198  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

swift  walking  soon  warmed  his  blood,  and  when  he 
reached  the  heavy  woods  of  Shotton,  and  the  gaunt  house, 
pale  against  the  empurpled  twilight,  he  was  looking  and 
feeling  more  like  his  old  self  than  he  had  done  for  many 
a  day. 

Tea  was  in  the  library,  so  Davis  said,  the  white-haired 
butler ;  and  his  "Mr.  Sturt,  ma'am,"  was  an  old  servant's 
welcome  to  a  friend  of  the  house.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  room  except  the  rich  glow  of  the  hearth,  stacked 
with  faggots  and  peat  half-way  up  the  chimney,  but  as 
Mark  entered  with  his  easy  stride,  carrying  his  head 
rather  high,  various  figures  detached  themselves  in  bas 
relief,  rosed  over  by  the  fireshine  or  dim  against 
the  linen-folded  panels.  In  the  great  bay  with  Charles 
Ferrier  were  gathered  a  group  of  riders,  the  men  in 
breeches  and  boots,  the  women  in  habits;  two  of  Mrs. 
Ferrier's  brothers,  young  army  men,  and  some  friends 
of  the  family  of  many  years'  standing  whom  Mark  had 
met  before  at  Shotton.  Near  the  fire  in  a  big  chair  he 
recognized  the  gray  head  and  plain,  dignified  features  of 
George  Mallinson,  and  at  his  feet  Dodo,  slender  as  a 
young  girl  in  her  cream  color  and  ermine,  was  sitting 
on  the  hearth  with  her  arms  about  her  knees.  So  much 
Mark  saw  before  Dodo  uncurled  herself  and  almost  ran 
to  meet  him.  "I'm  so  glad  you're  come,"  she  said,  giving 
him  both  her  hands.  "Charles,  here's  Mark!  You  do 
know  every  one,  don't  you  ? — ah !  Terry,  you  little  fiend ! 
don't  let  him  bother  you!" 

When  Mark  had  shaken  hands  all  round  and  dropped 
into  a  chair  near  his  hostess,  he  began  to  feel  that  he 
was  going  to  enjoy  himself.  Mrs.  Essenden  had  taught 
him  that  he  was  lonely,  but  she  could  not  satisfy  the 
want  she  had  created,  no,  not  for  a  moment;  no  more 
indeed  could  Dodo,  but  her  warm  uncritical  kindness 
soothed  it  for  a  time.  Nor  was  it  only  Dodo  who  went 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  199 

out  of  her  way  to  make  him  welcome.  A  woman's  wel- 
come can  do  no  more  for  a  man,  if  his  own  sex  give  him 
the  cold  shoulder,  than  men  can  do  for  a  woman  in  the 
parallel  case,  and  Mark  had  come  down  slightly  on  the 
defensive,  for  he  had  not  forgotten  the  Savoy  night,  and 
he  was  pretty  sure  that  Ferrier,  a  Londoner  to  his  finger- 
tips and  with  all  the  Londoner's  dread  of  a  scene,  would 
remember  it  too;  but  there  was  no  trace  of  criticism  in 
Ferrier's  steady  eyes,  and  Mark's  stiffness  melted  when 
he  found  himself  adopted  on  the  spot  into  the  charmed 
intimacy  of  family  life.  Terry  alone  was  enough  to  keep 
Mark  happy;  an  imp  of  four,  he  took  to  Mark  as  chil- 
dren always  did  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  never  knew 
what  to  say  to  them,  and  precipitated  himself  upon 
Mark's  legs  as  soon  as  he  sat  down.  "I've  got  some  new 
knickers,"  he  said,  fixing  Mark  with  a  gimlet  stare. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  them,  Mr.  Shirt?" 

"Mr.  Sturt,  darling,  not  Mr.  Shirt,"  interpolated  Dodo 
hastily. 

"Shirt,"  said  Terry  with  a  riotous  giggle.  "Shirt.  Mr. 
Nightshirt."  From  dancing  up  and  down  on  Mark's 
knee  he  fell  into  Mark's  arms,  planting  one  foot  on  his 
friend's  stomach  after  the  inconsiderate  manner  of  small 
children  in  big  chairs.  "Ow,  I've  hurt  my  foot.  Mr. 
Nightshirt,  can  you  play  bears?" 

"Rather !" 

"Ow.  I  shall  come  an'  play  bears  to-morrow  morn- 
ing before  you  get  up." 

"Well,  don't  forget,"  said  Mark  with  his  hearty  laugh. 
"I  shall  lie  awake  all  night  thinking  about  it." 

"Will  you  ?"  Terry  said.  He  had  been  trying  to  tie  the 
tips  of  Mark's  mustache  into  a  bow,  but  he  desisted  sud- 
denly and  flung  his  arms  round  Mark's  neck.  "Yen  I 
like  you  better  yan  Mr.  Potiphar." 

Mark,  like  many,  perhaps  the  majority  of  men,  was 


200  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

fond  of  children,  but  he  had  never  connected  them  with 
himself;  his  life  had  been  too  full  to  be  handicapped  with 
the  ties  of  a  family,  and  he  had  none  of  that  feudal  feel- 
ing towards  his  Northern  property  which  makes  a  man 
crave  for  an  heir.  He  had  never  desired  a  child.  But 
now  he  thought  to  himself,  without  tracing  the  fancy  to 
its  origin  or  its  conclusion,  "And  I  might  have  a  kid  like 
this — but  not  by  Jenny  Essenden." 

Mrs.  Ferrier  fancied  he  was  tired,  and  rose.  "Terry, 
fly  to  your  father,"  she  said.  Terry,  declining  to  fly  any- 
where, was  carried  writhing  to  the  window  seat,  where 
Ferrier  was  telling  an  apparently  scandalous  tale  to  his 
brothers-in-law  and  Miss  Travis.  Mark  watched  him 
scoop  up  the  elf  in  one  arm  as  he  continued  to  make  his 
point,  amid  the  ribaldry  of  his  audience ;  what  the  point 
was  Mark  did  not  hear,  for  Dodo  had  taken  him  out  of 
the  room.  She  stopped  beside  the  fire  in  the  hall,  arch- 
ing one  small  foot  to  the  flames,  her  blue  eyes,  blue  as 
steel,  lifted  to  Mark's  face.  "I  do,  do  hope  you  won't 
be  bored !"  she  said  frankly.  "We're  terribly  intimc,  I 
know,  and  the  Earles  always  behave  like  infants  of 
twenty  when  they  get  together.  But  you  look  so  fagged, 
Mark;  I  believe,  if  you  only  don't  mind,  it'll  do  you 
good  to  be  just  one  of  us  and  put  up  with  Terry's  plati- 
tudes." 

"Oh,  I  like  it,"  said  Mark,  smiling. 

"Provided  you  don't  get  tired  of  it,"  said  Dodo  with 
her  inexpressive  keenness  of  glance.  Mark  felt  himself 
flushing;  surely  she  could  not  be  going  to  cross-examine 
him?  But  no;  Dodo  did  not  number  want  of  common 
sense  among  her  irregularities  of  character. 

"A  person  of  simple  tastes,  aren't  you?  like  Mr.  Mallin- 
son.  I  think  men  who  work  hard  often  are,"  she  ran  on, 
apparently  at  random.  "It  is  the  Mr.  Potiphars  who 
always  have  to  be  amused.  Oh,  that's  Terry's  joke,  he 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  201 

is  great  on  nicknames,  but  really  he  did  think-  it  was 
Potiphar;  I'd  been  telling  him  the  story  of  Joseph  just 
before  Mr.  Forester  came." 

"Is  Mr.  Forester  here?" 

"Yes,  you  haven't  seen  us  all  yet "  Dodo  began,  and 

then  she  broke  off,  as  the  outer  door  was  thrown  open. 
"There  she  is !"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  vexation ;  and 
Mark  saw  framed  in  the  entry  against  a  somber  sky  the 
figure  of  a  very  tall  woman  in  sable  coat,  cap,  and  muff, 
followed  by  Forester  himself.  Dodo's  swift  glance  went 
from  Mark  to  the  new-comer,  and  then  came  back  to 
him.  Vague  misgivings,  so  vague  that  she  had  felt  thor- 
oughly justified  in  disregarding  them,  rushed  back  upon 
her  as  she  realized  how  badly  she  had  blundered.  But 
what  was  it — what  was  wrong  between  those  two,  that 
each  looked  at  the  other  as  if  at  a  ghost,  Mark  Sturt 
reddening  slowly  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  Maisie 
white  as  paper? 

There  could  be  no  pause,  and  there  was  none.  "Well, 
my  darling,"  said  Maisie,  coming  forward  and  giving 
her  hand  to  Dodo,  "how  are  you  and  how  is  Terence? 
Oh,  yes,  thanks,  I  came  in  the  car,  but  I  saw  Mr.  For- 
ester at  the  gate,  so  I  walked  up  through  the  park  with 
him.  No,  we're  not  cold — are  we,  Harry?"  Then  she 
turned  to  Mark.  "How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Sturt?  I'd  no 
idea  you  were  going  to  be  here.  Unexpected  pleasure." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"I— Dodo." 

"Oh !  come  in." 

Dodo  entered.  She  was  wearing  another  of  the  soft 
ivory-colored  dresses  that  Ferrier  liked  her  in,  and  with 
her  curly  fair  hair  and  slender  shoulders  she  seemed 
younger  and  less  a  woman  of  the  world  than  her  friend, 
who,  in  black  velvet  and  Mechlin  lace,  resembled  one 


202  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

of  Vandyck's  gallant  ladies.  Maisie's  splendid  hair  was 
dressed  elaborately  as  usual,  and  she  was  in  the  act  of 
fixing  a  pearl-set  Spanish  comb  among  its  soft  puffs  and 
coils.  "How  smart  we  are!"  Dodo  said,  kneeling  down 
by  the  fire.  "But  why  do  you  never  wear  your  wonder- 
ful diamonds,  Maisie?  Are  you  afraid  of  their  being 
stolen?" 

"I  shouldn't  care  a  pin  if  an  enterprising  burglar  made 
a  clean  sweep  of  them,"  said  Maisie.  She  patted  a  sec- 
ond comb  softly  into  place,  and  then  she  put  out  the  lamps 
and  threw  herself  into  an  easy  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hearth.  "Diamonds  are  vanity.  Dodo,  you  look 
pale  and  conscience-stricken.  What  is  it?  Pass  me  my 
cigarettes  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Dodo  prepared  to  comply,'  but  seemed  to  find  a  diffi- 
culty. "I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  sit  with  your  knees 
crossed,"  she  said  irrelevantly.  "You  have  very  nice 
ankles,  but " 

"But  you  are  not  looking  pale  because  I  show  too  much 
of  my  legs,"  said  Miss  Archdale  in  the  high  classic  drawl 
which  enabled  her  to  speak  her  mind  with  so  much  point 
and  fluency.  "If  you  have  any  questions  to  ask,  ask 
them.  I  know  I  gave  myself  away  this  afternoon,  thanks 
to  your  talent  for  arranging  surprises.  On  the  whole 
I  think  I'll  get  the  first  shot  in  myself:  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  Mr.  Sturt  was  going  to  be  here  ?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Poor,"  said  Maisie,  "very  poor.    Have  another  go." 

"But  upon  my  honor  I  don't  know !"  Dodo  answered. 
She  sat  curled  round  on  a  cushion,  one  hand  clasping  her 
foot,  while  in  her  eyes  danced  golden  specks  reflected 
from  the  flames :  leaping  flames,  yellow  ribbons  veined 
with  sapphire  and  vermilion,  and  branching  upwards  into 
weedy  fringes  of  brown  and  hyacinth  blue  and  chryso- 
prase  green.  "Twice  or  three  times  I  was  going  to  tell 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  203 

you,  and  then  I  thought  I  wouldn't,  but  I  didn't,  and  don't, 
know  why.  You  didn't  seem  to  see  much  of  him  when 
you  were  with  us  in  July." 

"I  saw  more  of  him  than  you  knew." 

Dodo  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment  Maisie  went  on. 
"This  much  I  will  tell  you,  Dodo,  because  I  want  you 
to  play  up.  You  didn't  tell  me  he  was  going  to  be  here, 
or  tell  him  I  was,  because  you  had  an  inkling  that  if  you 
did  one  of  us  would  stay  away.  You  were  quite  right. 
He  is  connected  for  me  with  the  most  painful,  the  most 
humiliating  experience  of  my  life.  It  was  no  fault  of  his, 
and  you  need  not  think  you  can  guess  what  it  was,  be- 
cause you  can't — the  conditions  were  too  unlikely,  too 
bizarre.  But  there  it  is,  if  you  had  warned  me  I  couldn't 
have  forced  myself  on  him." 

"I'm  very  sorry." 

"I'm  not.  It  had  to  come.  I  shan't  run  away.  Only, 
be  content  with  what  you've  done,  dear  child.  Leave  me 
to  make  the  running.  Don't,  in  your  affectionate  zeal, 
send  me  in  to  dinner  with  him,  or  arrange  accidental 
tete-a-tete." 

"Is  it  likely?  Do  you  think  I  ever  would  have  asked 
you  if  I  had  known  there  was  any  feeling  of  this  kind 
between  you  ?" 

"Do  I  ?  Don't  I  ?"  Maisie  stuck  out  her  slender  foot, 
shod  in  the  Louis-Quinze  slipper  that  matched  her  velvet 
dress  and  the  pearls  in  her  hair.  "No,  I  don't  think 
these-shoes  were  dear  at  fifteen  guineas ;  it's  always  satis- 
factory to  be  unique.  Really  I  can't  see  why  you  did  it 
at  all.  You  must  have  had  some  motive — you  were 
matchmaking  as  far  back  as  July.  Why  have  you  set 
your  heart  on  marrying  me  to  Mark  Sturt?" 

"I  like  you  both  so  much.  And" — Dodo  hesitated — 
"I  always  did  think  Mr.  Sturt  was  a  little  in  love  with 
you." 


204  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Mr.  Sturt  in  love  with  me!"  Maisie  repeated  in  an 
accent  of  profound  surprise.  "Good  heavens !  why,  he 
never  spoke  to  me  if  he  could  help  it!" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do."  Maisie 
smiled  ruefully,  feeling  that  Dodo's  words  were  true, 
though  not  as  Dodo  meant  them;  Maisie's  judgment 
was  entangled  in  personal  relations,  and  she  could  not 
step  far  enough  back  to  gain  the  detached  standpoint 
of  the  critic.  "He  was  caught,  fascinated,  but  he  wouldn't 
yield  to  the  fascination.  He  didn't  much  want  to  marry 
any  one.  And  then  he's  proud — men  of  his  age  always 
are;  he  knew  you  had  refused  twenty  people,  and  he 
wouldn't  a  bit  have  liked  to  be  the  twenty-first." 

"He  never  would  have  been." 

"Maisie!" 

But  Miss  Archdale  passed  on  so  carelessly  that  Dodo 
could  not  decide  if  the  words  were  a  confession  or  no. 
"You're  wrong :  quite  wrong.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  woman 
he  likes.  He  doesn't  want  a  woman  of  his  own  height, 
he  wants  a  little  clinging  person  with  brown  eyes  and  an 
affectionate  disposition.  He's  very  domesticated,  is  Mark. 
His  ideal  lady  would  exist  to  warm  his  slippers  and  bring 
his  babies  into  the  world." 

"Cynic!"  said  Mrs.  Ferrier  gently.  Lifting  her  keen 
blue  eyes,  she  searched  her  friend  for  a  sign  of  relenting, 
but  the  handsome  mask  was  impenetrable  in  its  good- 
humored  scorn.  Dodo  sighed,  and  suddenly  her  impa- 
tience overflowed  in  blunt  speech.  "Don't  pose,  Maisie. 
If  you  married,  you  wouldn't  shirk  motherhood." 

Maisie  took  her  cigarette  out  of  her  mouth  to  laugh. 
She  stretched  out  her  long  limbs  with  a  touch  of  the  old 
vanity,  the  flame-light  flickering  over  her  sculptured 
shoulders  and  the  deep  curves  of  bosom  and  waist. 
"Faith,  shouldn't  I?  Think  of  my  figure." 

"Thanks  for  that." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  205 

"Why?" 

"Because  now  I  know  you  are  romancing  by  the  yard," 
said  Dodo  placidly.  "You  forget,  my  love :  I've  seen  you 
with  Terry." 

"With  Terry?    Well:  ah,  well  .  .  ." 

The  broken  murmur  ended  in  a  long  sigh,  and  she 
tossed  her  cigarette  into  the  fire.  "Would  you  like  me 
to  come  and  kiss  you,  Dorothea  ?  I'd  rather  not,  but  it's 
the  orthodox  prelude  to  a  girlish  confidence,  and  I  have 
a  very  great  desire  to  confide  in  you.  Also  I  have  a  very 
great  desire  to  weep.  I  don't  know  why  one  should 
always  ride  oneself  on  the  curb.  I  jest  at  holy  things 
because  I  don't  want  to  cry,  but  after  all  why  shouldn't 
one  cry  now  and  then?  Oh!  my  heart  ...  I  shall  if 
you  bother  me  about  Terry.  Happy  woman !  you  have 
everything.  But  you  weren't  happy  always.  Did  you 
want  children,  before  you  married?" 

"No :  do  you  ?" 

"Yes,  very  much :  I  should  love  to  have  one  of  my 
own.  It  makes  me  ache  to  feel  Terry  in  my  arms.  He 
isn't  mine,  though.  I  want  something  right  out  of  me, 
made  of  me.  Dodo,  didn't  Terry  take  to  Mark  ?  I'm  so 
glad  he  likes  him  better  than  Mr.  Potiphar.  Poor  Harry ! 
he  is  full  of  good  intentions,  but  he  hasn't  a  way  with 
children.  Mark  has.  He  loves  them,  and  he  is  sweet 
with  them :  he  doesn't  a  bit  know  what  to  do  with  them, 
but  he  lets  them  do  anything  on  earth  they  like  with 
him.  I  watched  him  with  Terry  this  evening  when  they 
didn't  know  I  was  there;  Terry  was  a  little  demon,  but 
Mark  was  a  willing  victim.  He  was  a  German,  and 
Terry  shot  him.  I  should  love  to  see  him  with  a  child 
of  his  own." 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  you're  telling  me." 

"Perfectly,  thanks." 

"And  you  don't  mind  my  knowing?" 


206  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Rather.  No,  I  don't  care;  I  don't  care  much  about 
anything,  if  I  could  only  stop  the — the  pain  for  a  little 
while.  It  is  a  silly  position,  isn't  it?  I  can  still  see  it's 
silly,  but  I  don't  feel  it  as  a  humiliation,  I  only  feel  it 
as  a  pain.  Usedn't  I  to  be  rather  a  proud,  independent 
sort  of  woman?  I  haven't  any  pride  left;  if  Mark  held 
up  his  little  finger  I  would  go  to  him,  and  I  wouldn't 
ask  much  either — only  the  crumbs  from  his  table.  I 
wouldn't  stipulate  for  ardor,  I  would  be  content  with  a 
little  affection.  Just  to  warm  his  slippers  and  bear  his 
babies." 

"Oh !     Maisie !    Maisie !" 

"And  that  is  love,"  said  Maisie.  She  leaned  forward, 
stretching  out  her  hands  to  the  fire  as  if  she  felt  cold; 
her  eyes  were  steady  and  brilliant,  but  Mrs.  Ferrier  saw 
that  she  was  trembling.  "Love  that  the  poets  write 
songs  about.  I  don't  think  it's  any  fun  at  all.  Do  you 
suppose  other  women  do  the  trick  as  completely,  Dodo? 
Did  you?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  were  very  unhappy.  But  it's  over  now.  Or 
do  the  scars  never  fade?" 

"Never,"  said  Dodo,  her  face  darkening  for  a  mo- 
ment. "But  that  doesn't  matter.  Never  to  be  happy  is 
the  price  one  pays  for  loving  another  person  better  than 
oneself." 

"And  you  think  it's  worth  while?" 

"Yes." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Maisie  simply.    "But  oh !  it  hurts." 

Now  and  then  in  dark  hours  the  need  of  human  com- 
panionship is  very  great.  Maisie  covered  her  eyes  with 
one  hand  and  laid  the  other  on  Dodo's  knee ;  a  maiden 
hand,  for  she  had  taken  off  Mark's  rings  in  the  train 
that  carried  her  away  from  Ushant,  and  had  slipped  them 
on  the  chain  that  bore  Philip's  portrait.  Dodo,  who 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  207 

knew  nothing  of  either  rings  or  locket — she  was  vaguely 
acquainted  with  the  tragedy  of  the  Redruth  Castle,  but 
not  from  Maisie,  and  she  had  never  heard  Philip's  name 
— Dodo  drew  courage  from  her  own  experience  to  throw 
her  arm,  for  a  moment,  lightly  and  shyly  round  Maisie's 
neck.  There  was  much  that  she  did  not  understand ;  but 
that  Maisie  had  suffered,  and  suffered  deeply,  was  evi- 
dent from  the  indefinable  change,  the  saddened  maturity 
that  had  come  on  her  since  July.  Six  months  ago  and 
Maisie  was  still  a  girl,  high-spirited  and  impatient;  she 
had  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight  since  then,  and  had 
come  out  of  it  scarred  and  sobered.  Youth  takes  wing 
when  we  begin  to  realize  that  we  have  no  particular 
right  to  be  happy,  and  that  the  universe  will  not,  on  our 
account,  go  one  step  out  of  its  way;  this  lesson  Maisie 
had  learned,  apparently — the  old  nursery  lesson,  "You 
must  not  snatch."  But  in  what  school  had  she  endured 
discipline  ? 

What  perplexed  Dodo  most  of  all  was  the  way  in 
which  Maisie  spoke  of  Mark.  She  loved  him ;  he  did  not 
love  her;  surely  there  was  an  end  of  the  matter?  The 
rest  could  only  be  a  question  of  bearing  pain  with  forti- 
tude. But  Maisie  seemed  to  look  on  the  game  as  only 
half  played,  and  the  candor  with  which  she  spoke  of 
possible  further  developments  would  have  shocked  Dodo 
if  it  had  not  been  vindicated  by  its  own  simplicity.  Mrs. 
Ferrier  was  no  prude,  and  she  was  not,  as  some  women 
are,  afraid  to  face  the  mysteries  of  life  and  passion,  but 
she  was  a  wife,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  her  that  Maisie 
should  disregard  the  conventional  delic&cies  which  veil 
them  from  the  unmarried.  How  came  Maisie  by  this 
intimacy  of  the  imagination?  And  what  right  had  she 
to  assume,  as  she  did  implicitly  in  every  word,  that  there 
was  to  be  any  future  relation  between  her  life  and 
Mark's?  Dodo  was  baffled. 


208  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Later  she  was  to  realize  that  what  baffled  her  was 
precisely  this  nameless,  pervasive  difference  between  the 
married  and  the  unmarried  point  of  view.  Even  such  a 
marriage  as  Maisie's  must  confer  rights  and  constitute  a 
bond.  Loved  or  unloved,  the  wife  has  a  lien  on  a  man's 
private  life,  on  the  disposition  of  his  future,  on  the  very 
substance  of  his  nature.  This  is  fact,  not  fancy — law, 
not  whim;  Mark  himself,  having  done  little  cool  think- 
ing since  he  went  to  Normandy,  was  scarcely  awake  to 
it,  but  it  was  the  foundation  on  which  Maisie  based  her 
few  remaining  hopes. 

"And,  Dodo " 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"Is  he — do  you — have  you " 

"Oh,  Maisie !    Maisie !" 

"What  is  this  rotten  tale  that  is  going  about?  You 
know  what  I  mean;  I  suppose  Charles  doesn't  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  gossip  of  the  clubs.  Louis  Haynes'  wife 
tried  to  tell  me,  but  I  shut  her  up.  But  to-night,  when 
I  watched  him —  He  has  changed." 

Dodo  winced,  she  had  dreaded  this  question. 

"Dear,  forgive  me:  are  you  wise — indeed,  have  you 
any  right  to  examine  into  Mr.  Sturt's  private  life?" 

"Yes,  I  have  the  right." 

"Oh,  I  don't  understand  you.  Yes,  it  is  true."  Maisie 
was  mute.  "True  so  far  as  it  goes.  Such  things  don't 
go  very  far,  do  they?  Anyhow,  women  have  to  bear 
them.  But,  if  it's  any  comfort  to  you,  my  own  impres- 
sion is  that  he'd  be  thankful  to  be  rid  of  her." 

"Her?" 

"Mrs.  Essenden — you  meant  that?  Oh,  goodness!" 
Dodo  murmured  in  an  accent  of  dismay.  "Oh,  you  only 
meant  that  time  at  the  Savoy?" 

"Who  the  devil  is  Mrs.  Essenden?    His  mistress?" 

"Maisie !     Maisie !" 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  209 

"Come,  it  only  wanted  that!"  said  Maisie  with  the 
wreck  of  a  laugh.  "Is  it  the  lovely  Jenny  Essenden  that 
Freddy  Field  went  off  with?  How  very  nice  for  Mark! 
Has  it  gone  on  long?" 

"Since  August,  Charles  said." 

"August?  you  don't  say  so.  My  high-minded  Mark! 
August  .  .  .  and  I  who  loved  him  because  he  was  a 
Catholic  and  a  mystic  .  .  .  oh,  and  he  was,  he  was!  oh, 
my  darling,  oh,  my  darling  .  .  ." 

The  tears  had  their  way  at  last.  Dodo  sat  still,  not 
daring  to  touch  her  friend  now.  Not  many  drops  fell, 
however.  Maisie  was  not  one  of  the  women  who  find 
relief  in- tears.  She  dashed  the'  bright  dew  from  her  eye- 
lashes and  lay  back  in  her  chair,  pressing  her  handker- 
chief to  her  lips  to  still  their  trembling. 

"Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,"  Dodo*  pleaded.  "You  know 
these  things  don't  count  in  a  man's  life  as  they  do  in 
ours;  not  an  unmarried  man,  anyhow.  It's  all  wrong, 
of  course,  but  it's  the  world  we  live  in." 

"And  all  men  are  alike:  and  you  wouldn't  care,  would 
you,  if  Charles — ?" 

"He  is  my  husband." 

"True:  and  I  am  not  Mark's  wife,"  said  Maisie  with 
an  indefinable  accent  of  irony. 

She  pulled  herself  languidly  to  her  feet.  "I  must  wash 
my  face;  it's  ten  to  eight.  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  come  down 
to  dinner ;  a  little  blanc  de  perle  will  hide  the  ravages  of 
grief.  Oh,  dear  me,  where's  my  rose-water?  Tell  me 
everything  you  know  about  this  affair  with  Mrs.  Essen- 
den — is  it  casual  or  settled?  Does  she  live  with  him?" 

"She  has  a  house  of  her  own  in  Westminster,  which 
Mark  is  supposed  to  be  paying  for ;  that  may  or  may  not 
be  true." 

"But  it  is  certain  that  he  goes  to  her?  It's  no  mere 
club  gossip?"  Dodo  reluctantly  shook  her  head.  "But 


210  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

why  should  you  think  he  wants  to  be  quit  of   her?" 

"Because  he  did  such  an  extraordinary  thing  when  I 
asked  him  here.  I  wrote  to  him  at  his  flat  in  Park  Court, 
but  I  suppose  he  was "  Dodo  stumbled — "it  was  for- 
warded to  him  in  Green  Street,  for  he  wrote  his  reply  to 
me  from  that  woman's  house  and  on  her  paper.  I  tore 
it  up,  because  I  knew  how  Charles  would  storm  if  he  got 
hold  of  it,  but  I'm  pretty  certain  Mark  didn't  do  it  out 
of  carelessness,  and  still  more  that  he  didn't  mean  it  for 
an  insult.  For  thirty  seconds  I  was  cross,  and  I  thought 
of  wiring  to  him  not  to  come,  but  directly  I  thought  it 
over  I  saw  what  he  meant." 

"And  what  did  he  mean?" 

"A  confession  and  a  fair  warning;  if  it  didn't  sound 
so  absurd,  I  should  say  just  a  little  bit  of  an  appeal.  I 
am  convinced  that  he  wouldn't  have  done  it  if  he  weren't 
feeling  rather  sick  about  it  all." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say  he  is  sick  about  it,"  Maisie  assented 
in  level  tones.  She  crossed  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  into  the  dark  night;  her  thoughts  were  as 
somber  as  the  wintry  landscape,  over  -which  a  rigor  of 
frost  was  settling  down  under  a  heaven  of  tropical  stars. 
".  .  .  Oh,  my  beloved:  oh,  Mark,  my  darling,  I'd  have 
died  for  you,  and  I've  thrown  you  straight  into  this 
woman's  hands.  For  it's  all  my  doing,  I  tried  you  too 
high,  and  so  in  the  reaction  my  knight  without  reproach 
has  fallen  as  other  men  fall.  And  I  who  could  have 
kissed  the  ground  under  your  feet  at  Ushant  because 
you  weren't  like  other  men!  You're  in  the  dust  now; 
you're  not  much  better  than  I  am.  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  forgive,  as  well  as  to  be  forgiven.  That  is  bit- 
ter. I  suppose  it's  always  the  way,  the  envenomed  tor- 
ment of  sinning  is  that  one  makes  others  sin  whom  one 
would  have  died  to  keep  superior  to  oneself.  But  it 
will  bring  you  back  to  me.  Some  day  when  you're  sick 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  211 

of  her  you'll  remember  that  you  have  a  wife  and  you'll 
turn  to  me  for  deliverance.  Beloved,  for  your  sake  I'd 
rather  you  never  came  to  me  than  that  you  were  brought 
to  me  by  sin  and  weakness,  but  for  my  own  ?  .  .  .  Thank 
God  she  can't  give  you  legitimate  children." 

The  last  words  were  half  audible.  "What  did  you  say, 
Maisie?"  asked  Mrs.  Ferrier,  startled. 

"I  say,"  answered  Maisie,  strolling  back  to  the  fire, 
"that  it's  lucky  Charles  doesn't  open  your  letters,  or 
there  would  have  been  a  row.  He  would  not  have  fol- 
lowed your  subtleties,  he  would  have  said  it  was  an  un- 
gentlemanly  thing  to  do." 

"But  Mark  is  a  gentleman." 

"You  stick  up  for  your  friends,  don't  you,  Dodo?" 

"You  like  to  hear  me  stick  up  for  Mark,  don't  you, 
Marcella?" 

"Rather,"  Maisie  admitted.  "Not  that  I  care  much, 
after  all.  I  have  the  makings  of  a  good  wife  in  me, 
Dodo,  a  humble,  faithful,  unassuming  Grisekla  of  a  wife; 
if  he  swore  at  me,  if  he  beat  me,  if  he  went  away  to 
Green  Street  now  and  then  I  wouldn't  care,  if  he  would 
let  me  stay  with  him  between  times.  Come,  let's  go 
down;  I  promised  to  try  over  Harry  Forester's  new 
song  with  him  before  dinner,  and  I  forgot  all  about  it. 
One's  so  apt  to  forget  Harry  Forester." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Dire  que  j'ai  vecu  avec  ga  .  .  . 

SOME  hours  later,  on  that  same  Christmas  Eve  of 
his  arrival  at  Shotton,  Mark  Sturt,  for  the  first  time 
since  he  went  to  Normandy,  settled  down  to  think  out 
his  affairs. 

Long  after  the  rest  of  the  household  were  in  bed  and 
asleep,  he  sat  back  in  a  big  chair  by  the  fire  in  his  room, 
pulling  hard  at  his  pipe,  and  staring  from  under  shaded 
eyes  into  the  chase  of  flames.  Political  work  trains  the 
faculty  of  concentration,  and  Mark,  who  was  not  weak 
— though  he  had  acted  weakly — tackled  the  problem  of 
his  own  conduct  systematically  point  by  point.  "Quelques 
decouvertes  que  Ton  ait  faites  dans  le  pays  de  1'amour- 
propre,  il  y  reste  encore  bien  des  terres  inconnues."  Mark 
had  not  liked  it  when  from  Consicline  he  heard  his  wife's 
name  linked  with  Harry  Forester's ;  but  when  hearsay 
turned  to  eye-witness — when  Forester  led  Maisie  in  out 
of  the  snowy  night — Mark  was  shocked  out  of  five 
months  of  drifting  by  the  recoil  of  jarred  pride.  He 
sat  down  to  think :  and  his  conclusion  was  that  since 
July  he  had  played  the  fool,  actively  or  passively,  in 
every  branch  of  life. 

What  brought  home  his  own  folly  to  him  as  nothing 
else  would  have  done  was  having  to  fight  off  an  in- 
clination to  stimulate  thought  by  resort  to  his  hunting 
flask.  He  stood  aghast  at  himself.  The  impulse  was 
brief  but  strong — so  strong  that  he  was  tempted  to  end 
it  by  emptying  good  brandy  out  of  the  window.  Tempted  ? 

212 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  213 

Yes,  tempted  to  fly  temptation.  "Well,  I'm  damned!" 
he  said  aloud,  standing  flask  in  hand  beside  the  windy 
night.  "No,  I'm  not,  but  I'm  within  arm's  length  of  it." 
He  screwed  the  cap  on  again  and  pitched  the  flask,  still 
full,  back  into  his  drawer:  then,  returning  to  his  chair 
by  the  fire,  "No,  my  friend,"  he  said  with  a  jerk  of  his 
shoulders,  "no  more  of  that  rot.  Understand  once  for 
all,  Mark  Sturt,  that  little  bottles  of  brandy  don't  rank 
as  temptation." 

Indeed  the  imp  of  the  spirit  flask  had  never  gained  any 
hold  over  Mark,  and  in  five  minutes'  time  he  had  for- 
gotten it  in  a  struggle  with  fiends  more  robust.  He  was 
astonished  to  find  how  little  grip  he  had  of  the  forces 
with  which  he  was  contending.  Five  months  of  drifting 
— five  months  of  Jenny's  tutelage — had  disorganized  his 
brain.  "What  have  I  been  doing  since  July?"  he  asked 
himself,  forcing  his  fogged  mind  to  classify  and  con- 
centrate. "Take  Gatton  first."  What  of  Gatton,  the  pre- 
occupation of  thirteen  arduous  years?  Locked  in  his 
dispatch  case"  lay  half  a  dozen  letters  from  Jack  Bennet, 
all  of  them  unanswered,  the  last  even  unread.  Mark 
fairly  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  his  own  folly.  "I'll 
tackle  those  letters  and  write  to  Jack  before  I  sleep," 
he  said.  Luckily  Bennet,  though  unutterably  bewildered 
and  sore,  was  a  loyal  and  able  lieutenant,  and  Gatton  was 
not  likely  to  have  suffered  by  its  master's  aberration. 
Mark  wished  all  other  debts  could  have  been  written 
off  as  swiftly. 

What  of  his  Parliamentary  ambitions?  "Five  months 
to  the  bad,"  was  Mark's  net  verdict,  and  he  grew  rather 
white  about  the  mouth  as  he  framed  it.  The  favor  of  a 
less  conspicuous  lady  might  have  passed  virtually  un- 
noticed, but  Jenny  was  a  torch  to  scandal.  Mark  had 
talked  to  George  Mallinson  that  night,  and  it  had  not 
taken  him  ten  minutes  to  gauge  the  attitude  of  the  white- 


214  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

haired  Chancellor.  Those  kind  gray  eyes,  accustomed 
to  the  reading  of  men,  would  have  been  more  friendly 
and  less  reserved  if  Mark  had  met  him  before  it  became 
necessary  to  make  allowances  for  the  Savoy  night,  and 
the  house  in  Green  Street,  and  all  the  poisonous  exag- 
gerated rumor  that  Jenny  had  set  flying  about  Mark's 
name.  "By  Jove,  I'll  sit  in  Mailinson's  pocket  for  the 
next  ten  days !"  Mark  said  to  himself  with  a  savage  laugh. 
"My  hand  is  steady  anyhow."  As  for  the  liaison  with 
Jenny,  he  could  but  hope  that  when  it  was  broken  the 
rumors  that  had  sprung  out  of  it  would  die  away  of 
themselves. 

"When  it  was  broken."  It  had  to  be  broken,  then? 
Yes,  if  Mark  hoped  for  office;  he  knew  that  no  official 
post  could  be  held  concurrently  with  that  of  Jenny's 
lover.  "She  is  too  panache,"  he  reflected  with  a  hard 
smile;  "I  must  break  that  link";  and  then  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  very  being  dissolved  in  weakness.  He  shifted 
in  his  chair  and  the  sweat  came  out  on  his  face.  What! 
break  it  once  for  all?  break  it  from  to-night?  Never 
again?  Never.  .  .  ?  "Never,"  repeated  the  tiny  warder 
of  his  will.  But  his  hand  shook  as  he  wiped  his  stream- 
ing temples,  and  his  nerve  gave  way  before  the  image  of 
Jenny  which  rose  up  out  of  the  dark,  in  the  firelit  room, 
like  a  ghost — and  what  a  ghost!  Her  long  curls  fell 
across  his  eyes,  her  sweetness*  warmth,  and  perfume 
came  into  his  arms :  but,  though  the  lure  of  this  ghost 
of  passion  was  as  strong  as  life,  it  could  not  quench  the 
fires  it  lit.  Only  Jenny's  self  could  do  that.  Oh !  once 
more,  for  the  last  time !  "Once  more  ?"  said  the  warder 
of  his  will.  "No,  my  friend,  never  again.  'Once  more' 
has  broken  lives  innumerable  of  better  men  than  you. 
Your  solitary  chance  lies  in  'never  again.'  Make  your 
mind  up — if  she  has  left  you  a  mind  to  make  up — and 
stick  to  it." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  215 

An  hour  later  Mark  was  back  in  his  chair  beside  the 
sinking  fire.  He  looked  ravaged,  but  a  measure  of  peace 
had  come  to  him  after  the  fight.  Mrs.  Essenden  had 
not  had  time  enough  to  do  her  work  thoroughly;  she 
had  sapped  his  will  but  not  broken  it.  "I'll  settle  with 
Jenny  before  I  go  to  Gatton.  A  check-book  and  a  wait- 
ing taxi.  I  wonder  what  she'll  stand  me  in  to  get  quit 
of  her?  A  pretty  stiff  figure,  I  fancy."  Such  was  the 
sum  of  Sturt's  reflections,  in  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
he  did  not  flatter  Mrs.  Essenden;  but  men's  thoughts 
rarely  flatter  ladies  of  her  craft. 

So  much  for  Gatton,  and  Mr.  Mallinson,  and  Jenny: 
and  now  to  home  affairs.  But  on  this  topic  Mark  could 
by  no  means  reduce  himself  to  method.  He  could  think 
only  by  flashes.  "She  is  my  wife,"  he  said.  "She  holds 
the  place  my  mother  held."  His  wife!  Aye :  though  the 
fascination  of  Jenny  was  still  on  him,  he  felt  the  differ- 
ence between  the  durable  and  the  impermanent  tie.  "She 
is  the  only  woman  who  can  give  me  legitimate  children." 
Though  by  a  different  path,  he  had  come  to  the  same 
landmark  that  Maisie  had  reached  months  ago.  "I  ought 
to  have  a  son.  It  is  ten  to  one  Lawrence  will  never 
marry.  When  I  die,  who  will  take  my  place  at  Gatton? 
Besides  .  .  .  that's  a  jolly  little  beggar,  that  kid  of  Fer- 
rier's."  In  the  ellipse  lay  a  world  of  dim  feeling,  the 
slow,  shy  instinct  of  paternity  that  rarely  stirs  in  men 
till  after  marriage,  the  sense  of  duty  to  the  State,  and 
to  his  own  manhood,  and  to  the  linked  generations  of 
the  dead. 

"Then  there's  Forester."  All  the  evening  Mark  had 
stood  aside;  he  was  not  going  to  exchange  shots  with 
Harry  Forester — he,  the  husband,  with  that  luckless 
innocent  lover!  but  his  pride  bled  inwardly.  "They  all 
think  she'll  marry  him."  Maisie  gave  Forester  no  en- 
couragement, Mark  acquitted  her  of  that  meanness;  but 


216  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

it  did  not  strike  her,  apparently,  that  there  was  a  third 
point  of  view  to  be  considered.  "The  position  has  be- 
come insufferable."  The  position  had  not  changed  at  all ; 
it  was  Mark  himself  who  had  changed,  imperceptibly 
shifting  his  point  of  view  from  day  to  day.  "I  must 
put  a  stop  to  it."  He  had  only  to  pronounce  certain 
words,  and  at  Ushant  it  would  have  been  easy  to  say 
them.  But  Ushant  had  gone  as  far  away  as  another 
man's  life,  and  the  Maisie  who  had  poured  his  tea  and 
buttered  his  bread  had  turned  into  a  friendly  stranger. 
Mark  groped  in  darkness. 

"Time  enough  to  settle  that  when  I'm  quit  of  Jenny." 
This  was  as  near  as  Mark  had  got  to  a  decision  when  he 
rose  at  last  and  began  to  undress,  after  scrawling  his 
unbusinesslike  Stonyhurst  signature — "Yours  ever, 
Mark" — at  the  foot  of  a  long  letter  to  Jack  Bennet.  "Till 
then  my  hands  are  tied.  Meanwhile  I  mark  time  and 
take  my  chance  to  disabuse  Mallinson  of  his  crotchets." 
He  stood  by  the  open  window  in  his  shirt  and  trousers, 
and  the  north  wind,  bitter  with  frost,  blew  in  on  his  chest. 
Mark  rather  liked  the  bracing  cold.  He  threw  up  his 
arms  with  a  yawn  and  stretched  his  great  body,  into 
which,  sleepy  as  he  was,  the  hot  blood  of  power  and  de- 
termination came  flowing  back  as  he  realized  that  from, 
that  night  onward  he  was  committed  to  a  fight.  He  stared 
out  into  the  dark,  and  his  heavy  eyes  softened.  "Ah ! 
Guy,  old  fellow  .  .  ."  He  had  not  prayed  since  he  left 
Duclair  with  Jenny;  why  pray,  when  one  is  living  in 
mortal  sin?  But  now,  with  his  inveterate  simplicity,  he 
bent  his  knee. 

Salve  regina,  mater  misericordiae,  vita,  dulcedo,  et  spes  nos- 

tra,  salve. 

Ad  te  clamamns  exsules  filii  Evae, 
Ad  te  suspiramus. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  217 

Jenny's  lover  had  need  of  that  prayer.  "  'Must  go 
round  to  Green  Street  now,"  was  Sturt's  final  reflection 
as  he  flung  himself  into  bed. 

"•Dear  me,  what  a  pretty  scene!"  said  Mr.  Mallinson. 
"This  is  the  sort  of  day  that  makes  even  old  stagers  like 
you  and  me  feel  young  again — hey,  Sturt?" 

"Oh,  quite,"  said  Mark  cheerfully.  "Let  me  buckle 
that  strap  for  you,  sir,  shall  I  ?" 

"No,  no,  please  don't,"  said  Mr.  Mahinson,  fumbling 
with  his  gloved  fingers :  " — oh,  thank  you,  my  dear  boy, 
but  you  really  shouldn't!" 

It  was  New  Year's  Eve,  and  "seasonable  weather." 
The  snow  that  fell  on  the  night  of  Maisie's  arrival  con- 
tinued to  fall  thick  and  soft  for  four  and  twenty  hours ; 
then  the  clouds  blew  over  and  the  sun  came  out  in  a  pale 
blue  sky — but  the  temperature  held.  The  lake  froze  in 
one  night,  and  the  ice  hardened  in  the  very  noonday  un- 
der the  breath  of  a  north  wind.  The  scene  that  had 
taken  Mr.  Mallinson's  fancy  might  have  been  a  Russian 
landscape,  so  clear  was  the  western  lighting  and  so  pure 
the  mask  that  sparkled  under  it  over  the  undulating  val- 
ley. The  beechwood  was  plumed  with  snow,  the  pas- 
tures glittered,  oak  and  ash  and  elm  threw  long  blue 
shadows  across  them,  not  the  skeleton  shadows  proper 
to  December,  but  dense  and  blurred  as  in  summer  leaf. 
The  lake  itself,  in  its  frame  of  forest  and  field,  resembled 
a  drawing  in  water  color,  so  animated  yet  so  delicately 
clear  appeared  the  knots  and  couples  that  dissolved  and 
reformed  on  its  gray  and  polished  floor. 

Mark  helped  the  Finance  Minister  on  with  his  skates. 
Mallinson  was  a  plain,  blunt-featured,  blue-eyed  man  of 
sixty,  with  a  broad  forehead  queerly  modeled  by  the 
calculating  brain  within,  and  till  ten  days  ago  Mark  had 
never  understood  why  Mallinson  was  so  well  loved  in 


218  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

the  House.  Ten  days  ago  Mark  had  seen  in  him  only  a 
useful  man  to  cultivate.  But  this  ambition,  never  very 
keen — Mark  was  not  made  of  supple  stuff — had  not  sur- 
vived an  hour's  experience  of  the  great  statesman's  trans- 
parent honesty  and  goodness.  Mallinson  was  one  of  the 
most  powerful  factors  in  the  Liberal  government  of  the 
day,  because  in  no  matter  what  ministerial  combination 
he  was  secure  of  his  own  post,  but  in  private  life  he  was 
as  simple  as  a  child,  with  a  courteous  modesty  of  man- 
ner that  seemed  to  deprecate  a  snub.  He  was  no  orator ; 
he  had  no  backing  of  wealth  or  landed  influence ;  but  he 
had  budgeted  for  England  in  the  first  stricken  years  of 
peace,  when  deficits  were  piling  up  and  every  man  urged 
economy  on  every  class  but  his  own;  and  Gatton  had 
trained  Mark  to  appreciate  the  vast  work  that  those  lean 
gentle  hands  had  done.  Comparing  record  and  manner, 
Mark  conceived  for  the  elder  man  a  deep  admiring  af- 
fection, while  Mallinson  in  his  turn  was  grateful  and 
touched.  By  what  law  does  amity  spring  up?  Politics 
were  merged  in  the  unexpected  pleasure  of  a  friendship 
that  bridged  the  gap  between  thirty-five  and  sixty,  be- 
tween the  untried  private  member  and  the  high  command. 
Mallinson  safe  on  the  ice,  Mark  returned  to  put  his 
own  skates  on.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been 
down  to  the  lake ;  throughout  the  genial  festivities  of 
Christmas  he  had  stood  a  little  apart,  friendly  but  pre- 
occupied; but  as  he  pulled  down  his  white  sweater  and 
stamped  the  snow  from  his  boots  his  spirits  began  to 
rise.  He  was  out  of  practice,  but  he  had  learned  his  form 
in  Petrograd,  and  he  had  not  gone  twenty  yards  before 
the  old  ease  came  back.  He  looked  about  him.  A  mili- 
tary band  from  Hillingdon  was  playing  merry  French 
airs  from  a  pavilion  on  the  island,  and  far  down  the  lake 
Maisie  was  waltzing  with  Harry  Forester.  Harry  was 
rather  conscientious  than  graceful,  and  his  reversing  was 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  219 

a  trial  to  his  partner.  Mark's  glance  sparkled.  What 
of  Amyas  Saltau's  wife,  the  Dresden  China  Frenchwo- 
man with  the  forget-me-not  eyes  ?  Mark  had  watched  her 
at  Prince's.  She  was,  by  her  marriage,  some  connec- 
tion of  his  mother's  family. 

"Madame,"  said  Mark,  "will  you  waltz  this  with  me?" 

"I  did  not  know  you  waltzed,"  said  Claude  Saltau. 
"I  have  been  waltzing  with  Mr.  Forester.  I  am  a  little 
tired."  She  stuck  her  head  on  one  side.  "Are  you — are 
you  a  bay  horse?" 

"Er — a  bay  horse?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  do  you 
mean  a  dark  horse?"  returned  Mark,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  Mrs.  Saltau's  lapses  into  imperfectly  mastered 
slang.  "Come  and  try." 

"A  bay  horse  is  a  dark  horse,"  said  Claude,  affronted. 
"These  distinctions  are  very  stupid.  But,  since  you  are 
so  confident,  come  then,  my  pippin." 

Light  faded,  shadows  lengthened ;  a  windless  cold  set- 
tled down  over  the  white  fields,  dispersing  the  elder 
company  and  thinning  the  younger.  The  far  end  of 
the  lake,  where  the  beechwood  stood  on  guard  against 
the  brilliant  pallor  of  sunset,  was  now  comparatively 
clear.  In  the  east  the  moon  hung  broad  and  bright  like 
a  gold  coin  over  a  peak  or  two  of  snowcloud  scarlet  in 
the  afterglow.  Skilled  ice-dancing  is  the  poetry  of  mo- 
tion; and  Mark  and  his  cousin,  flying  over  the  glassy 
floor  in  the  long  sweeping  curves  of  the  waltz,  swayed  to 
the  merry  music  as  the  reed  sways  to  the  wind. 

"How  well  you  skate!"  said  Dodo,  poising  in  front 
of  Mark  like  a  gray  bird  in  her  soft  chinchillas,  after 
Claude  had  left  him.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a 
dandy." 

"Thank  you."  Mark  accepted  the  compliment  gravely. 
He  was  enjoying  himself.  "Not  so  well  as  my  brother." 

"But   then   you   don't   do  anything  so   well   as   your 


220  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

brother,"  Dodo  was  impertinent  enough  to  retort.  "I 
don't  remember  ever  to  have  had  so  many  figure  skaters 
on  the  ice  before.  Let's  do  something  to  astonish  the 
natives !" 

"Might  get  up  a  Lancers,  what?"  suggested  Mark 
lazily.  "Bags  I  you  for  my  partner  if  we  do.  There 
would  be  plenty  of  light,  with  a  clear  sky  and  a  full 
moon." 

"Oh,  yes,  let's!"  Dodo  cried.  "Fly  and  tell  the  men 
what  to  play  while  I  get  the  set  together." 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  arranging  a  set  of  sixteen. 
They  were  forming  on  the  ice  when  Mark  came  back: 
Roderick  Earle  and  Grace  Travis,  Claude  Saltau  and 
Charles  Ferrier,  Harry  Forester  and  a  daughter  of  the 
vicarage,  and  so  on.  There  was  a  hitch  over  the  last 
couple :  Dodo  wanted  Mr.  Mallinson  to  come  in,  and 
Mr.  Mallinson,  laughing  like  a  schoolboy,  protested  that 
he  had  not  been  on  the  ice  for  fifteen  years,  and  also 
that  he  had  forgotten  how  to  dance  the  Lancers.  "So 
have  all  of  us,"  said  Dodo  cheerfully.  "It's  as  old  as 
the  hills.  But  what  does  it  matter  on  the  ice?  Of  course 
we  shall  get  into  a  dreadful  muddle,  but  anyhow  it  will 
be  great  fun." 

"But  I'm  not  steady  on  my  legs!"  said  the  statesman 
ruefully.  "I  shall  tumble  down  and  upset  you  all,  you 
mark  my  words.  You  young  things  will  get  on  far  bet- 
ter without  me,  and  I  shall  be  quite  happy  sitting  on  the 
bank." 

"Come  and  dance  with  me,  Mr.  Mallinson,"  said 
Maisie,  appearing  from  the  island  where  Ferrier  had 
been  tightening  a  strap  for  her.  "I  haven't  any  partner, 
and  I  should  love  to  say  I  had  skated  the  Lancers  with  a 
Finance  Minister.  I  saw  you  doing  the  most  wonder- 
ful loops  this  afternoon." 

Maisie  was  in  her  sable  cap  and  coat,  the  latter  thrown 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  221 

open  and  revealing  her  beautiful  throat,  bare  under  its 
veil  of  tulle  as  if  the  day  had  been  midsummer.  She 
had  a  cluster  of  purple  violets  pinned  at  her  breast,  and 
her  eyes  were  sparkling  as  she  tossed  away  her  muff 
and  stretched  out  her  warm  bare  hand  to  the  statesman. 
George  Mallinson  shrugged  his  shoulders,  laughed,  and 
surrendered  at  discretion.  The  band  were  already  strik- 
ing up  the  prelude  as  they  glided  to  their  places,  filling 
the  last  gap;  and  not  till  then  did  Maisie  realize  that 
she  was  standing  next  to  Mark  Sturt.  It  was  too  late 
to  escape. 

Perhaps  it  was  due  to  Mr.  Mallinson's  gray  hairs  or 
perhaps  to  the  influence  of  the  scene  and  hour  that  the 
dancers  found  themselves  going  through  the  old-fash- 
ioned, intricate,  and  graceful  evolutions  with  unexpected 
decorum.  Riot  would  have  been  out  of  harmony  with 
that  gray  arena,  the  solemn  guardianship  of  snowy  wood- 
land, the  mingling  light  and  shadow  of  afterglow  and 
moonshine,  the  sweet,  plaintive  music  a  little  dimmed 
by  distance  and  dispersal  through  the  open  air.  Ad- 
vancing and  retiring,  crossing  hands  and  exchanging1 
courtesies,  they  all  fell  under  the  same  spell.  The  other 
skaters  had  stopped  to  watch  them,  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  sound  except  the  dry  grinding  clash  of  steel  on  ice. 

Disaster,  however,  came  with  the  Third  Figure.  It 
was  a  graceful  group,  Mark  thought,  as  the  men  stood 
waiting  with  hands  locked  together,  the  women  on  the 
edge  of  the  circle  poising  easily  for  flight;  but  as  soon 
as  they  glided  off  he  realized  that  the  chain  would  not 
hold.  The  ice  was  too  smooth,  the  pace  too  hot,  and 
the  centrifugal  force  too  violent  for  undrilled  resistance. 
A  woman's  nervous  laugh,  then  Roderick  Earle's  "Look 
out,  Grade!"  and  "Oh,  Lord!"  from  Ferrier,  a  gasped 
"So  sorry!"  from  another  man — and  then  the  link  of 
hands  broke  and  the  dancers  scattered.  Mark  himself 


222  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

and  Charles  Ferrier  stood  fast.  But  Mallinson,  out  of 
practice  and  hampered  by  the  stiffness  of  his  sixty  years, 
was  the  first  to  let  go,  and  as  he  staggered  back,  reeling 
to  a  heavy  fall,  he  dragged  Maisie  with  him.  Instantly 
Mark  released  Dodo,  whose  balance  had  never  been  im- 
periled, and  struck  forward  to  throw  his  arm  round 
Maisie,  drawing  her  round  with  him  and  away  from 
Mallinson  till  she  came  naturally  to  a  level  footing.  For 
that  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  as  he  bent  over 
her  he  saw  the  glitter  of  a  gold  chain  under  her  tulle 
vest.  Ushant — the  smart  of  flame  OH  his  arm — harebells 
dancing  in  the  grass  before  the  White  Cottage — the  sting 
of  salt  wind  in  the  open  doorway — it  all  came  back  like 
yesterday  as  Mark  watched  the  scarlet  blood  burn  under 
the  fine  skin,  and  the  intervening  time  dwindled  to  a 
shadow  in  retrospect.  A  stranger?  No,  Jenny  was  the 
stranger :  this  was  his  wife. 

A  moment  later  they  were  standing  erect  and  disen- 
gaged, and  Maisie,  as  her  blush  ebbed,  raised  her  bril- 
liant eyes  and  murmured  an  easy  "Thank  you."  Mark 
bowed  silently.  A  voice  from  the  bank  said  "Bravo !" 

Mark  turned  round,  unable  to  believe  his  ears.  But 
there  was  no  mistaking  that  very  tall,  slight  figure,  or 
the  delicately  cut  colorless  features,  or  indeed  the  cos- 
tume— Lawrence  all  over:  a  Russian  jacket  to  the  hips, 
fur-lined  and  fur-bordered,  high  boots  laced  from  point 
to  knee,  and  arrowy  Russian  skates ;  Lawrence  back 
from  Colorado,  and  appearing  with  his  habit  of  dramatic 
abruptness  at  a  -moment  when  his  brother  would  have 
preferred  to  be  unobserved.  "Is  it  you?"  said  Mark, 
quitting  his  companions  without  apology,  and  skating 
over  to  the  bank.  "Lawrence?  I  hadn't  a  notion  you 
were  coming  back.  Or  did  a  letter  miscarry?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge.  But  let  me  apologize  first  to 
Mrs.  Ferrier,"  said  Lawrence,  stepping  on  the  ice.  He 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  223 

was  bareheaded,  with  an  indifference  to  cold  which  was 
as  characteristic  in  its  way  as  the  hardy  male  coquetry 
of  his  outlandish  furs,  and  he  came  up  to  Dodo  with  one 
of  his  deep  foreign  bows.  "Will  you  forgive  me?  I'm 
only  just  home  from  Colorado,  and  I've  done  a  fearful 
thing.  You  never  will  forgive  me,  I  know." 

"Yes,  I  shall  forgive  you  anything  if  you  look  at  me 
like  that,"  said  Dodo  helplessly.  She  was  far  from  ap- 
proving of  Lawrence,  whose  affectations  filled  her  with 
rage,  but  he  had  his  own  way  with  her  when  he  liked,  as 
indeed  he  had  with  many  women.  "What  have  you 
done?  Eloped  with  some  one,  I  suppose — I  do  hope  it 
isn't  my  cook!" 

"Taken  possession  of  a  bedroom  and  unpacked  and 
changed  my  clothes,"  said  Lawrence,  showing  his  white 
teeth  in  a  hearty  laugh.  "Do  you  mind — awfully?  I 
only  got  in  last  night,  and  they  told  me  Mark  was  down 
here,  and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  a  soul  in  town,  and  I 
was  bored  to  tears,  so  I  thought  the  best  plan  all  round 
would  be  for  you  and  Ferrier  to  take  me  in  too?" 

"Oh!  is  that  all?" 

Dodo's  tone  of  unaffected  relief  made  the  culprit  laugh 
again.  "All,  on  my  honor!  What  do  you  take  me  for? 
Any  one  would  think  I  came  to  steal  the  spoons !" 

"Go :  I  want  to  look  after  Mr.  Mallinson,"  said  Dodo, 
waving  him  away.  "Go  and  talk  to  Mark,  if  that's 
what  you  came  down  for;  you  might  at  least  have  the 
decency  to  pretend  you  came  to  see  me.  Have  you  had 
anything  to  eat,  poor  wanderer?" 

"Oh,  yes,  thanks— they  gave  me  some  lunch  as  soon 
as  I  got  here." 

"I  might  have  known  it !"  was  Dodo's  perfectly  audi- 
ble comment,  as  she  flitted  away  to  look  after  the  states- 
man, who  was  sitting  on  a  chair  on  the  bank,  nursing 
his  shoulder  and  apologizing  to  his  anxious  friends  for 


224  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

having  been  the  first  to  break  the  chain.  Lawrence,  who 
hated  amiable  people,  stared  at  the  group  for  a  moment 
from  under  dropped  eyelids,  and  then  turned  to  his 
brother. 

"Get  away  down  there  where  the  ice  is  clear  and  we'll 
show  the  aborigines  a  trick  or  two,  Mark." 

Mark,  who  was  indifferent  to  comment  but  not  fond 
of  it,  hung  back,  but  Lawrence  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Come  along,  you  ass — I've  traveled  over  five  thou- 
sand miles  to  talk  to  you,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  now." 
He  dragged  his  brother  down  the  lake,  a  long  stone's 
throw  away  from  the  group  on  the  bank,  and  began 
solemnly  to  perform  the  intricate  evolutions  which  he 
and  Mark  had  learned  together  one  winter  on  the  Neva. 
"How  it  all  comes  back !  Remember  that  time  we  skated 
up  together  from  Petrograd  to  the  Gulf  of  Finland,  and 
the  queer  white  nights  at  the  winter  gardens  on  the  way  ? 
What  was  that  figure  they  called  the  trepaka?  We'll 
do  that.  I'm  out  of  form,  but  I  doubt  if  the  con- 
noisseurs on  the  bank  will  discover  it.  Do  'em  good  to 
see  what  real  figure-skating's  like,  silly  fools.  Well,  how 
are  you?" 

"Much  as  usual,"  said  Mark,  wondering  what  possible 
motive  could  lie  at  the  back  of  his  brother's  proceedings, 
which  appeared  to  him  to  be  even  odder  than  usual. 
However,  it  was  less  trouble  to  give  in  than  to  argue, 
and  he  followed  Lawrence  with  stoic  gravity  in  the  half- 
forgotten  maze  of  figures ;  many  a  time  they  had  wheeled 
through  it  together  amid  the  medly  of  students  and  no- 
bles and  bagmen  at  the  Usupov  Club. 

"You  don't  look  it.  Curious  tangle  you  seem  to  have 
wound  yourself  up  in  while  I've  been  away!  The  crown- 
ing indiscretion  didn't  burst  upon  me  till  I  saw  you  with 
Miss  Archdale  just  now.  No  accounting  for  tastes,  old 
man;  she's  excessively  handsome,  I  admit,  but  I  doubt 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  225 

if  you  can  drive  her  tandem.  However,  you  seem  to 
have  her  very  well  in  hand." 

"Look  here,"  said  Mark,  stopping  short,  "if  you  came 
home  from  Colorado  to  say  this  kind  of  thing,  I'm  sorry 
you  took  the  trouble.  That  subject  is  barred." 

"Temper !"  said  Lawrence :  "wait  a  bit.  I  haven't  be- 
gun on  my  subject  yet.  When  I  do  you  really  will  want 
to  kick  me,  but  you  see  you  can't  do  it  out  here."  He 
performed  a  maneuver  which  brought  the  whole  supple 
length  of  his  figure  to  an  angle  of  sixty  degrees  with 
the  ice,  came  erect  again  with  a  swinging  pirouette,  and 
paused  to  light  a  cigar.  Some  of  the  spectators  on  the 
shore  had  begun  to  drift  towards  the  western  end  of  the 
lake  to  watch  the  curious,  foreign-looking  performance. 
Lawrence  shifted  the  cigar  between  his  teeth  and  spoke 
softly.  "Though  I  only  got  back  last  night,  I've  snatched 
time  to  call  on  Mrs.  Essenden." 

"Who  said  anything  to  you  about  Mrs.  Essenden?" 

"You  yourself,  when  you  regretted  not  having  taken 
my  advice." 

"Brilliant  as  you  are,  Lawrence — !" 

"Considine,  then,  if  you  will  have  it." 

"Ah?     Very  amiable  of   Considine." 

"Yes,  he  said  he  felt  sure  you  would  thank  him  for 
his  damned  officiousness." 

"No,  I  don't  thank  him,  and  I  don't  thank  you,"  said 
Mark,  out  of  patience.  "I  wish  to  goodness  you  would 
all  mind  your  own  business.  Do  I  ever  preach  to  you 
or  Considine?  I  can't  see  why  every  jack-sprat  in  town 
should  think  he  has  a  right  to  shove  his  nose  into  my 
affairs.  Lord  Vere  collared  me  the  other  day,  and  I 
couldn't  tell  him  to  go  to  the  deuce,  but  I  can  you  and 
Considine,  and  by  Jove  I  do !  As  for  the  woman  I  don't 
know  anything  about  her,  and  I  thought  she  was  in 
Paris." 


226  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

The  anticlimax  of  the  last  remark  made  Lawrence 
shout  with  laughter ;  but  he  soon  grew  grave  again.  "Oh, 
you  thought  she  was  in  Paris,  did  you?  She  is  not, 
then.  She's  in  Green  Street.  You  owe  me  one  that  she 
hasn't  turned  up  to-day  down  here." 

"Turned  up  at  Shotton !" 

"Yes.  You  don't  understand  the  fair  Jenny.  It  seems 
you've  annoyed  her,  my  friend ;  you  ran  away,  didn't 
you?  without  leaving  your  address.  Jenny's  particularly 
good  at  getting  addresses.  Few  things  annoy  her  more 
than  for  a  man  to  try  to  break  away." 

He  flashed  off  down  the  ice  with  his  own  erratic  grace, 
reverting  to  a  solo  performance  of  the  trepaka.  Mark 
knew  him  well  enough  to  be  sure  by  now  that  affectation 
so  whimsical  could  only  cover  news  of  weight.  He 
waited :  in  a  few  moments  Lawrence  was  at  his  side 
again. 

"You're  right,  Mark,  I  really  have  something  to  say 
to  you  and  I  don't  know  how  to  begin.  I  thought  it  would 
say  itself  more  easily  if  we  were  not  alone,  but  I  can't 
stand  all  these  people  staring.  Let  us  get  off  the  ice 
and  walk  up  through  the  wood,  it  will  be  quiet  there." 

Mark  was  startled.  He  said  no  more  till  they  were  in 
the  wood  together,  threading  its  frozen  aisles.  The  last 
splendor  of  sunset  had  faded  out  by  now,  and  they 
walked  by  the  illumination  of  moonlight  and  starlight 
and  snowlight ;  buried  deep  in  crystal  silence,  they  heard 
nothing  but  the  crunch  of  dry  snow  underfoot,  they  saw 
nothing  but  the  silvershafted  beech  trees  gleaming  away 
in  dim  reiteration  under  their  hoods  of  snow.  Far  in 
the  north  the  heavenly  husbandman  drove  his  glittering 
Plow,  and  in  the  east  the  Hunter  knelt  with  arm  thrown 
up,  his  sword  belted  to  his  thigh.  Suddenly  the  air  was 
full  of  a  hollow  moaning,  and  the  plumed  branches  trem- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  227 

bled ;  a  gust  of  wind  shook  through  the  wood  like  a  great 
sigh,  and  was  gone  again. 

"What  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this,  Lawrence?" 

"Pretty  the  blue  shadows  are  on  the  snow,  aren't  they  ? 
Bah!  I'm  cold."  He  turned  up  the  wolf  collar  under 
his  chin.  "There  is  a  breeze  getting  up.  I  thought  the 
weather  meant  mischief.  Aren't  you  going  to  thank 
me  for  calling  on  Jenny?  A  warm  quarter  of  an  hour 
you  would  have  had  if  she  had  come'  down  here  and 
made  a  scene  before  all  your  little  friends." 

"Who  told  her  where  I  was?" 

"Some  fellow  she  knew — Horton,  I  fancy.  I  doubt 
if  he  knew  he  told  her." 

"I  must  talk  to  Jenny." 

"Aye:  but  the  point  is,  what  are  you  going  to  say?" 
Mark  smiled,  and  his  mouth  hardened.  "Think  you  can 
bully  her,  do  you?  My  poor  Mark!  that  shows  how 
much  you  know  about  it.  There's  only  one  way  to  man- 
age women  of  Jenny's  type." 

"That  being—?" 

"Beating  them,"  said  Lawrence  grimly.  "She  wants 
the  cat.  Civilized  countries  don't  allow  it,  more's  the 
pity.  I  was  much  inclined  to  take  the  job  on  myself. 
What  possessed  you  to  let  her  fix  her  claws  in  you?  I 
warned  you.  But  I  thought  you  were  safe  in  Normandy. 
I  had  no  idea  Jenny  had  left  town.  I  had  a  letter  from 
her  in  October,  postmarked  Westminster.  But  I  might 
have  known  it  was  a  blind.  I  might  have  known  she 
would  not  let  a  man  go  when  she  had  once  marked  him 
down.  She's  a  pest,  is  Jenny.  A  social  pest.  She  wants 
killing.  I've  more  than  half  a  mind  to  do  it  my- 
self." 

"I  don't,"  said  Mark  slowly,  "dispute  the  general  force 
of  your  observations,  but  in  Mrs.  Essenden's  case  they 


228  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

aren't  deserved.  She  was  anxious  to  break  the  connec- 
tion. I  refused  to  let  her  go." 

Lawrence  stopped  and  faced  his  brother  in  a  moonlit 
clearing.  His  right  hand  opened  and  shut  once  or  twice, 
much  as  though  he  wished  it  were  clenched  on  Jenny's 
throat.  Deep  affection  mingled  with  the  deep  impatience 
in  his  tone. 

"You  silly  ass!"  he  said  again:  "oh,  Mark — you  silly 
ass !" 

"Look  here,"  Mark  spoke  wearily,  "you  mean  well,  I 
dare  say,  but  you're  neither  lucid  nor  civil.  The  whole 
affair  seems  to  me  commonplace  enough.  What  on  earth 
is  there  to  make  a  fuss  about?" 

"She  wanted  to  break  the  connection,  did  she?  My 
good  chap,  she  marked  you  down  six  months  ago — the 
more  fool  I,  to- flatter  myself  I'd  fooled  her.  She  break 
off?  I'll  be  sworn!  If  she  hadn't,  you  would  have. 
Reculer  pour  mieux  sauter  is  a  wile  as  old  as  Eve." 

"You  may  be  right,"  said  Mark  after  a  silence  during 
which  his  memory  took  a  flying  survey  of  the  past  and 
found  the  charge  unpleasantly  confirmed.  "I'm  not  an 
expert.  Haven't  had  your  varied  experience.  But  every 
case  hangs  by  its  own  rope.  In  the  case  of  Jenny  Essen- 
den — how  do  you  know?" 

Lawrence  paused  to  relight  his  cigar,  which  had  gone 
out.  By  matchlight  Mark  saw  the  fine-drawn  sharpness 
of  his  features,  and  the  flicker  of  his  momentary  smile. 

"She  was  my  mistress  before  she  was  yours." 

"You  lie."   " 

"Better  have  stayed  by  the  lake,  what?"  said  Law- 
rence. "Drop  it,  Mark."  He  knocked  the  stick  out  of 
his  brother's  hand. 

After  a  minute  they  walked  on  together  in  silence. 

"Now  you  see  why  I  returned  from  Colorado,"  re- 
sumed Lawrence.  "Indiscriminate  connections  of  that 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  229 

sort  aren't  in  your  line,  are  they  ?  Nor,  to  say  truth,  in 
mine.  Not  that  it  signifies  a  pin's  point  of  course:  if 
there  were  question  of  legality,  one  couldn't  even  call  it 
illegal.  Still  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  about  it." 

"She  knew." 

"Naturally!    You  don't  fondly  imagine  she'd  care?" 

"Thanks  for  telling  me,"  said  Mark.  They  had  come 
out  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  he  stopped,  holding 
out  his  hand.  He  made  no  other  apology  for  his  mo- 
mentary flare  of  violence :  had  not  Lawrence  foreseen  it  ? 
One  could  trust  Lawrence  to  see  in  the  dark.  "Go  back 
to  the  lake  if  you  don't  mind,  we  don't  want  them  to 
think  there's  anything  up.  We'll  talk  this  out  later  on. 
You'll  have  to  give  me  place  and  date.  But  I'll  take  an 
hour  to  get  used  to  it  first."  He  was  holding  his  brother's 
hand  in  a  grip  like  that  of  a  drowning  man;  Lawrence 
could  not  draw  it  away. 

"Feel  sick?"  said  Lawrence  simply.  "I  did,  the  first 
ten  minutes.  Seems  so — so  perverse,  doesn't  it?  I'm 
not  precisely  fastidious,  and  the  connection,  I  may  add, 
didn't  last  long ;  but  all  the  same  it  filled  me  with  disgust 
to  think  I'd  lived  with  that." 

"Quite,"  said  Mark,  letting  him  go.  "Will  you  tell 
Ferrier  I've  gone  on?" 


CHAPTER   XIV 
THE  RAKE'S  SERMON 

THE  skating  party  was  already  breaking  up  when 
Lawrence  returned  to  it.  After  excusing  Mark  to 
Mrs.  Ferrier,  he  had  only  time  to  take  Maisie  Archdale 
for  one  long  flight  over  the  darkling  ICQ,  their  arms  inter- 
laced, the  bright  plaits  under  the  sable  .cap  lying  close 
against  his  dark  shoulder,  before  the  music  was  brought 
to  an  end  and  the  lake  left  deserted  to  the  frost  and  the 
moon.  But  when  they  all  walked  up  together  through 
the  snowy  fields  Lawrence  kept  fast  at  Maisie's  side, 
and  his  attitude  was  sufficiently  exclusive  to  provoke  in- 
discretions. "So  that  was  what  fetched  Lawrence  Sturt 
back  from  Colorado !"  was  Roderick  Earle's  candid  com- 
ment to  Grace  Travis,  with  whom  he  was  on  semi- 
brotherly  terms.  Grace,  however,  answered  with  a  sigh, 
"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  and  refused  to  explain  herself  even 
under  charge  of  being  unduly  taken  with  Lawrence's 
furs.  Maisie  herself,  recalling  the  July  passage-at-arms, 
began  to  wonder  if  she  was  to  be  the  victim  of  another 
fit  of  adoration.  She  need  not  have  been  afraid.  The 
truth  was  that  Lawrence,  with  his  hawk's  eyes,  had  seen 
in  that  brief  moment  of  his  arrival  more  than  any  one 
else  had  ever  seen,  and,  in  the  deep  clannish  affection 
for  his  brother  which  was  the  toughest  though  not  the 
ruling  force  in  his  life,  he  was  trying  to  find  out  how 
the  land  lay. 

"Gloomy  old  place,   Shotton,"  he   remarked,   as   the 
gaunt  Georgian  fagade  loomed  up  twinkling  through  the 

230 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  231 

dusk.  "If  I  were  Charles  Ferrier  I  should  let  it.  But 
I  have  no  landed  sentiment.  It  is  a  thousand  pities 
Longstone  Edge  didn't  go  to  Mark.  That's  our  own 
feudal  mansion  at  Gatton,  you  know;  the  feudality  so 
far  as  we  are  concerned  is  not  forty  years  old,  but  I 
believe  Mark  loves  every  stick  and  stone  of  it.  Has  he 
ever  talked  to  you  about  it?" 

"Never,"  said  Maisie  briefly:  then  giving  way  to  a 
natural  yearning,  "Would  Mr.  Sturt  ever  talk  of  any- 
thing he  really  cared  about?" 

"Possibly  not,"  said  Lawrence,  laughing.  "I  remem- 
ber when  I  lunched  with  him  at  the  Ritz  the  day  when 
he  was  given  his  V.C. " 

"When  he— what?" 

"Didn't  you  know  he  was  a  V.C?" 

"No,  I  never  knew  it." 

She  was  not  a  keen  reader  of  the  papers :  she  had 
never  seen  a  letter  addressed  to  Mark  Sturt;  and  in 
conversation  she  avoided  his  name. 

"It  was  earned,"  said  Lawrence  soberly,  standing  aside 
to  let  Maisie  pass  in.  He  had  amused  himself  in  the 
war,  but  even  for  him,  even  after  thirteen  years,  some  of 
its  incidents  were  a  sobering  memory. 

"I'm  sure  it  was,"  said  Maisie.  "But  I  must  go  and 
dress  now.  You  see  we  dine  at  seven  to-night."  And 
then  she  left  him  with  a  little  smiling  bow  and  ran  away 
upstairs.  There  are  tales  that  one  would  rather  never 
hear  at  all  than  hear  from  an  outsider.  Lawrence  Sturt, 
as  he  joined  the  knot  of  men  who  lounged  round  the  hall 
fire,  drew  his  own  conclusions,  and  kept  them  to  him- 
self. 

"Come  in  here  for  ten  minutes,  will  you,  Lawrence?" 

Lawrence's  eyes  said,  "Now  I  am  going  to  be  bored." 

But  he  turned  into  his  brother's  room  without  protest, 


232  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

though  he  hated  to  be  hurried  over  dressing,  and  it 
was  already  after  six  o'clock.  Shotton  was  an  old 
house  and  solidly  built,  but  the  wind  had  risen  in  the 
last  half  hour,  and  Mark's  room  in  the  bachelor  wing 
faced  north.  Lawrence  looked  vexed  and  ruffled.  He 
dragged  a  sofa  closer  to  the  side  of  the  fire  and  threw 
himself  on  it.  "Do  for  heaven's  sake  shut  those  win- 
dows, Mark !  What  a  beggar  you  are  for  draughts ! 
One  can  have  too  much  of  the  best  fresh  at  six  o'clock 
on  a  January  night."  He  shot  out  a  long  arm  and  poked 
the  fire  to  a  blaze.  "That's  better.  Are  you  going  to 
dress  up  to-night?"  Mark  signified  assent.  "Thank 
heaven  I  can't."  One  would  not  have  guessed  from  his 
expression  that  he  was  grateful  to  the  fate  that  doomed 
him  to  appear  in  ordinary  black  and  white  at  a  New 
Year's  masquerade.  "Give  me  a  cigar."  Mark  obeyed. 
"And  a  match — Mallinson  took  my  last.  Yes,  and  I'll 
have  that  other  cushion."  Mark  threw  it  at  his  head. 
"Silly  ass!"  said  Lawrence  placidly,  tucking  it  be- 
hind his  neck.  For  an  M.P.  of  thirty-five,  I  must 
say—!" 

Mark,  his  hands  buried  in  his  pockets  and  his  shoul- 
ders propped  against  the  mantelpiece,  spoke  rather  in- 
distinctly across  the  stem  of  his  pipe.  "Do  you  happen 
to  have  seen  a  paper  lately?" 

"I  occasionally  glance  at  The  Times."  Lawrence 
grinned.  "Don't  be  witty,  it's  not  your  form.  Yes,  I 
know  you're  a  coming  man.  Time  enough  too.  What 
does  Mallinson  say?" 

"He  doesn't  say  much.  He  can't  very  well,  off  his 
own  bat.  But  if  Morrison  dies — which'  appears  to  be 
only  a  matter  of  days — it  is  admitted  that  there  will  be  a 
shake-up  all  round.  Ancaster  will  go  to  some  Colonial 
outpost,  th*y  won't  have  him  at  the  Home  Office  any 
longer.  His  last  feat  is  the  limit.  He  was  sent  down, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  233 

you  know,  to  settle  the  Western  railway  strike,  but  when 
he  was  driving  from  the  station  there  was  a  row  of  sorts 
in  the  street,  and  Ancaster  ran  away.  Wouldn't  face 
the  music.  He  was  booked  to  speak  at  the  Corn  Ex- 
change, but  when  he  found  he  couldn't  persuade  the 
Chief  Constable  to  telephone  to  the  barracks  he  scratched. 
I  mean  to  say,  he  had  a  heart  attack." 

"Good  Lord !" 

"Mr.  Mallinson  of  course  will  stay  where  he  is,  and 
I  believe  Lauderdale  sticks  to  the  War  Office.  They 
hate  him,  but  he's  able."  Mark  paused,  exhaling  a  cloud 
of  smoke  through  his  nostrils.  "And  strong.  Awful 
rows  in  the  Cabinet,  I  gather,  when  Lauderdale  attends. 
Even  Mallinson  admits  that  he's  difficult  to  work  with. 
By  that  same  token,  Vesey  will  probably  take  on  Home 
affairs,  because  he's  one  of  the  few  men  with  whom 
Lauderdale  is  still  on  speaking  terms.  You  remember, 
Miss  Vesey  married  young  Lauderdale." 

"I  remember — he  was  a  Trinity  man  of  my  year.  So 
Vesey  goes  to  the  Home  Office?  H'm.  That  leaves 
Vesey's  Under-Secretaryship  vacant." 

Mark  nodded.  "Of  course  it's  all  in  the  clouds  at 
present." 

"You  would  like  it?"  said  Lawrence,  half-incredulous. 
It  was  difficult  for  him  to  believe  that  any  man  could 
find  pleasure  in  the  dusty  ways  of  politics,  or  indeed  in 
taking  on  any  sort  of  hard  work  unless  he  were  driven 
to  it.  Mark  smiled. 

"I  should  like  it  very  much  indeed,"  he  said  emphati- 
cally. "Of  course  I  don't  count  on  it  for  a  moment.  I 
can  only  give  you  the  broad  outlines  that  everybody 
knows ;  there  are  all  sorts  of  ins  and  outs  which  I  mustn't 
repeat,  because  they  were  told  me  in  confidence.  But  I 
know  Mallinson  means  business.  He  was  good  enough 
to  say  I  had  done  some  useful  work  on  Committee." 


234  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Your  debating  power  would  tell.  Mallinson  is  no 
speaker,  nor  is  Vesey;  as  for  Lauderdale,  his  oratorical 
style  reminds  one  of  those  immortal  guns  we  used  to  call 
the  Neutral  Battery.  Half  his  shells  drop  in  his  own 
lines." 

"I'd  rather  work  with  Lauderdale  than  with  Ancaster 
any  day.  His  hands  are  clean,  and  when  his  mind  is 
made  up  he  rides  straight  across  country.  Imagine  Lau- 
derdale funking  the  railway  men!  I  said  that  to  Mr. 
Mallinson,  and  he  agreed  with  me." 

"Ah?  You  seem  to  hit  it  off  rather  well  with  the 
great  man."  Lawrence's  eyes  traveled  furtively  over  his 
brother's  face;  he  knew  Mark  to  be  intractably  disin- 
terested, and  he  feared  to  start  a  scruple.  "He  likes  you 
personally,  I  think.  I've  just  been  talking  to  him  in 
the  billiard  room,  and  I  was  amused  at  the  paternal  tone. 
He  referred  warmly  to  your  speeches  at  the  Interna- 
tional Congress  of  something-or-other,  and  your  striking 
monograph  on  Cooperation.  I  didn't  know  what  it  was 
all  about,  so  I  said  'Oh'  and  'Really'  at  proper  intervals. 
Is  it  a  fact  that  you  write  the  middles  for  the  Liberal  Re- 
view?" 

"Not  regularly.  Litchfield  has  asked  me  for  an  article 
once  or  twice." 

"Once  or  twice,  eh?    All  this  year,  Mallinson  said." 

"How  does  he  know?    I  don't  sign  them." 

Lawrence  laid  his  head  back  and  laughed  softly.  "He 
said  nobody  could  mistake  your  sledge-hammer  prose. 
Don't  blush,  Mark,  my  boy!  Not  but  what  you  ought 
to  blush  for  writing  anything  at  all  in  that  pestiferous 
rag.  Socialism,  rank  Socialism !  Let  us  hope  there  isn't 
any  chink  in  the  world  above;  if  there  is,  I  think  I  see 
father  with  his  eye  glued  to  it,  cursing  himself  for  leav- 
ing you  Gatton.  How  is  Gatton,  by  the  bye  ?" 

"Oh,  Gatton  goes  on  swimmingly.     I'm  due  for  the 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  235 

opening  of  the  Town  Hall  this  day  week.  It  pays,  you 
know;  we  have  a  bigger  turnover  every  year."  Mark 
mentioned  a  sum  which  made  Lawrence  raise  his  eye- 
brows. "But  I  don't  take  much  out  of  it,"  Mark  added. 
"Reckoning  one  year  with  another,  I  doubt  if  my  per- 
sonal expenses  average  more  than  a  couple  of  thousand. 
I  may  have  to  take  more  in  future."  He  smiled  to  him- 
self. 

"That  sounds  like  matrimony.'* 

"Yes,  doesn't  it?"  Mark's  smile  broadened;  he  had 
not  the  faintest  intention  of  admitting  Lawrence  fur- 
ther into  his  confidence.  Then  his  features  darkened 
and  his  manner  changed.  "It  is  late,  and  I  shall  take 
half  an  hour  to  get  into  my  clothes.  Let  us  come  to  the 
point.  About  this  sickening  Essenden  affair.  Will  you 
give  me  chapter  and  verse?" 

"Oh,  with  pleasure,"  said  Lawrence.  He  laid  down 
his  cigar  and  sat  up,  leaning  on  his  arm.  He  was  per- 
haps not  free  from  nervousness,  for  he  spoke  quietly 
and  with  unusual  precision  and  restraint.  Mark  listened ; 
the  tale  was  brief. 

"So  that  was  what  you  meant  when  you  said  you  had 
foiled  her." 

"If  you  like  to  call  me  a  fool  I  shan't  quarrel  with  you. 
Actually  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  she  would  hold  on 
her  way  as  soon  as  I  was  out  of  England." 

"Am  I  in  a  position  to  call  any  one  a  fool  ?  I've  been 
a  fool  myself.  What  did  Considine  say?" 

"Very  little.  You  know  his  epistolary  style.  It  took 
me  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  gather  the  drift,  be- 
cause for  some  time  I  labored  under  the  impression  that 
he  was  breaking  the  news  of  your  death.  When  at  last 
I  made  out  that  the  word  was  Essenden  and  not  ery- 
sipelas, I  dried  my  tears  and  packed  my  traps.  One 
thing  struck  me.  Mark,  who  set  the  talk  on  foot  ?" 


236  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"What  talk?" 

"Considine  said  the  whole  affair  was  public  property 
— that  it  was  common  club  gossip  that  you  had  been 
away  with  her  in  Normandy,  and  that  you  were  financing 
the  establishment  in  Green  Street.  Some  other  rubbish 
too,  which  Considine  apparently  believed.  I  did  not." 
Mark  had  picked  up  a  Dresden  toy  and  was  looking  at 
it  attentively;  he  felt  hot  and  uncomfortable,  but  he 
did  not  speak,  though  Lawrence  waited  for  a  moment. 
"But  we  don't  want  to  go  into  that,"  Lawrence  said 
gently.  He  was  not  even  watching  his  brother.  "My 
point  is  that  these  things  must  have  originated  with 
somebody.  You  did  not,  I  suppose,  give  yourself  away. 
Who  did?" 

"What  do  you  mean?    Fellows  always  talk." 

"More  or  less.     Why  more?" 

"How  on  earth  do  I  know?  Probably  because  it  was 
out  of  my  line." 

"You  don't  think  Jenny  fanned  the  flame?"  Mark 
did  not  answer,  but  his  eyes  flickered.  "She  has  her 
knife  into  you,  Mark.  Revenge  is  sweet." 

"But  what  has  she  to  revenge?" 

"That,  of  course,"  said  Lawrence  lightly,  "is  known 
only  to  yourself.  I  can  but  transmit  the  impression  that 
I  got  of  her  this  morning,  when  I  let  her  know  that  I 
was  on  my  way  to  you.  I  should  say,"  he  weighed  his 
words,  "that  she  hates  you  rather  more  violently  than 
she  hates  me.  Sorry  if  I  wound  your  feelings."  He 
paused  again.  Mark  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Being  unfor- 
tunately enslaved  to  an  effeminate  social  system,  you  and 
I  are  equally  powerless  to  tackle  Jenny  as  she  deserves 
to  be  tackled.  But  I  fancy  Jenny  is  well  aware  that 
whereas  I,  if  I  weren't  unfortunately  civilized,  should 
like  to  beat  her,  you  wouldn't  touch  her  with  a  forty- 
foot  pole.  Now  the  Jennies  rather  like  being  beaten,  but 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  237 

no  woman  on  God's  earth  will  stand  being  snubbed." 

"But — snubbed!  Good  heavens,  Lawrence,  it  is  she 
who  has  done  the  snubbing!" 

"You  think  ?  I  doubt  it.  You  are  occasionally  a  little 
inhuman,  Mark.  What  is  it? — the  religious  strain  in 
you,  perhaps.  You  despise  the  Jenny  type.  Amen  to 
that!  I  am  not  going  to  sentimentalize  over  Jenny  as  a 
fallen  woman.  Jenny  never  fell.  But  if  you  use  the 
woman  you  despise — !  Vaya,  I  have  spoken.  Rather, 
I  have  preached!  I  have  got  my  own  back."  He  laid 
himself  flat  on  his  cushions  and  shut  his  eyes. 

A  rake's  sermon  is  apt  to  be  impressive,  and  Lawrence 
Sturt's  point  of  view  was  novel  enough  to  keep  Mark 
silent  for  a  minute.  He  felt  that  there  was  some  rough 
justice  in  it.  Yes,  he  had  despised  Jenny  from  the  very 
first.  "She  ran  me  down,"  Mark  said  frankly  to  him- 
self, though  he  would  not  have  said  as  much  to  Law- 
rence ;  and  on  the  strength  of  it  he  had  bullied  her,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously — or  tried  to  bully  her.  Was 
it  true,  as  Considine  and  now  Lawrence  suggested,  that 
she  had  given  him  away?  It  was  odd,  now  he  came  to 
think  about  it,  that  the  details  of  hi«  liaison  with  Mrs. 
Essenden  should  be  known  so  fully  and  in  such  preci- 
sion. Watson  and  Garden  and  Delany  had  escaped  with 
a  casual  laugh  or  two,  a  vague  contradictory  whisper 
which  their  party  could  affect  to  disbelieve,  but  London 
had  laughed  openly  over  every  point  of  Mark  Sturt's 
indiscretion.  How  came  London  so  well-informed? 

"Of  course  a  lot  of  men  go  to  Green  Street,"  was  the 
issue  of  his  meditations.  "Horton,  for  instance.  He  is 
good  for  any  amount  of  chatter.  He  wasn't  there  to- 
day, by  any  chance?" 

"I  did  not  see  him,  Mark." 

"Well,  well!"  Mark  yawned  and  stretched  himself. 
"I'm  sick  of  the  subject.  Thank  heaven  the  whole  epi- 


238  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

sode  will  be  over  in  twenty- four  hours !  I  shall  run  up 
to  town  to-morrow."  He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
tell  Lawrence  that  the  breach  would  in  any  case  have 
come  about  within  a  few  days — the  rake's  sermon  rankled 
slightly. 

"You're  going  to  see  her?"  Lawrence  asked.  "Far 
better  go  than  write.  I  say:  if  she  has  any  letters  of 
yours,  better  make  her  give  them  up." 

"She  has  no  letters  of  mine.  She  may  have  a  note 
or  two ;  nothing  that  might  not  be  published  in  The  Times 
for  all  I  care." 

"H'm.  Wise  man!  So  you  didn't  trust  the  fair 
Jenny  all  the  way,  after  all?" 

"If  you  want  to  know  the  truth,  Lawrence,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  thought  about  her." 

"H'm.  As  I  expected.  And  then  you  wonder  that 
she  hates  you !  Well,  take  a  bit  of  advice  from  me,  will 
you  ?  you  didn't  last  time  and  you  were  sorry  for  it  after- 
wards. Think  about  her  now." 

"You  mean—  ?" 

Lawrence  swung  himself  erect  and  faced  his  brother 
in  the  dim  firelight,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  breeches' 
pockets  and  swaying  slightly  on  his  feet.  "Think  hard, 
Mark;  think  like  the  devil." 

"You  take  her  seriously?" 

"I  take  her  damn-seriously." 

"But  she  can't  do  anything." 

"Can't  she!" 

He  was  smiling  down  into  Mark's  eyes.  "I  tell  you, 
Mark,  that  lady  would  not  stick  at  much,  to  get  her 
knife  into  you.  She  knows  her  game  is  up.  She  won't 
get  any  more  out  of  you:  and  she's  not  a  bit  afraid  of 
you — don't  you  flatter  yourself.  You've  lived  with  her 
— what  is  it? — five  months.  Now  you,  if  I  know  you, 
were  off  your  guard ;  and  Jenny,  if  I  know  her,  was  all 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  239 

eyes  and  ears.  She  probably  knows  you  inside  out, 
better  than  you  know  yourself.  Can't  she  do  anything?" 

"She  might  turn  up  and  make  a  scene  somewhere,  I 
suppose,  but  she'd  be  sorry  for  herself  if  she  did.  She 
would  not  come  to  my  flat  twice.  I  should  have  her 
warned  off  the  premises." 

Lawrence  laughed.  "Good;  stick  to  that  frame  of 
mind,  and  you'll  have  the  range  of  her.  But  don't  under- 
rate the  forces  of  the  enemy,  and  for  God's  sake  don't 
take  any  notice  of  the  white  flag."  He  ground  the  heel 
of  his  boot  with  sudden  violence  into  the  ashes  scat- 
tered on  the  hearth.  "Would  you  call  a  truce  with  poison 
or  fire?  Then  call  a  truce  with  Jenny." 


CHAPTER    XV 

"What  says  the  married  woman?" 

IN  the  meantime,  after  leaving  Lawrence  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase,  Maisie  had  gone  to  her  own  room  to 
dress  for  the  early  dinner  that  was  to  precede  the  New 
Year's  Eve  masquerade.  When  she  was  out  of  sight  of 
Lawrence  her  step  grew  languid  and  the  brightness  faded 
out  of  her  eyes.  There  are  times  when  the  inner  world 
is  more  real  than  the  outer ;  those  who  are  drilled  to  the 
social  mask  will  play  out  their  part  in  it  without  self- 
betrayal,  but  in  every  interlude  the  mind  reverts  auto- 
matically to  a  more  exciting  dialogue  and  a  richer-col- 
ored scene.  One  moment  laughing  down  into  Lawrence 
Sturt's  eyes,  the  next  Maisie  was  reliving,  with  a  doubled 
keenness  of  sensation,  her  own  feelings  on  the  lake  when 
Mallinson's  stumble  flung  her  into  Sturt's  arms. 

In  her  own  room  there  was  a  leaping  fire  on  the  hearth, 
and  when  she  had  thrown  off  her  sables  she  knelt  down 
before  it,  warming  her  chilled  hands,  and  wondering, 
not  for  the  first  time,  whether  if  anything  precious  to 
her  had  fallen  into  it  she  would  have  had  the  courage 
to  snatch  it  out.  Brushwood  fires  in  the  open  air  are  not 
so  hot  as  a  sea-coal  hearth,  yet  flame  is  flame ;  and  one 
of  the  Ushant  memories  that  Maisie  liked  was  that  of 
Mark  Sturt's  calm  face  as  he  came  back  to  her  over  the 
downs,  holding  up  her  miniature  with  his  unaffected 
English  indifference  to  pain.  "I  wonder  if  you  still  carry 
that  scar,  Mark,"  said  Maisie  softly.  "You  had  your 
share  of  scars  already.  You're  hardy  enough,  my  friend. 
And  so  you  hold  the  cross,  Mark  of  mine?  Ah!  now  I 

?40 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  241 

know  why  you  colored  up  when  you  said,  'Surely  you 
knew  I  was  in  the  army  ?' "  She  covered  her  sparkling- 
eyes  with  her  hand;  she  was  so  deeply  one  with  Mark 
that  she  felt,  not  her  own  woman's  triumph,  but  his  sol- 
dier's shame. 

"Please,  miss,"  said  Ellen,  coming  into  the  room  in 
her  decent  and  disapproving  black  dress,  "there's  a  lady 
wants  to  see  you.  I  told  her  it  was  a  very  inconvenient 
time  to  come,  but  she  said  it  was  on  business  and  she 
wouldn't  keep  you  many  minutes.  What  shall  I  say  to 
her,  miss?  You  won't  have  time  to  see  her  now,  will 
you?" 

"What's  her  name?" 

"She  didn't  give  it ;  said  she  was  only  business  and  you 
wouldn't  know  her." 

"Some  begging  letter  imposition,  I  suppose,"  said 
Maisie  impatiently.  "What  do  you  mean  when  you  say 
she  is  a  lady — is  she  a  lady?" 

"Oh,  yes,  miss ;  quite  the  lady.  Quite  nice  in  her  man- 
ners, too,  and  quietly  dressed;  and  said  she  was  very 
sorry  to  be  so  late,  but  she  couldn't  catch  an  earlier  train. 
I  thought  p'r'aps  you'd  see  her  when  you  was  dressed. 
She  didn't  look  poor,  an'  she  drove  from  the  station  ia 
a  fly,  an'  said  it  was  to  wait  for  her." 

"It's  past  six  now,  and  dinner  is  at  seven.  Ask  her 
if  she  would  mind  coming  up  to  my  room  and  talking  to 
me  while  you  do  my  hair ;  if  it's  really  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness I  dare  say  she'll  be  glad  to  get  it  over  and  get  back 
again." 

Ellen  went  out,  and  Maisie  continued  to  kneel  by  the 
fire.  But  her  chain  of  thought  was  broken,  and  among 
dreams  and  memories  a  faint  prick  of  curiosity  made 
itself  felt.  Six  o'clock  on  New  Year's  Eve  was  a  strange 
time  to  choose  for  a  business  interview!  Probably  the 
woman  would  turn  out  to  be  a  beggar — Maisie  had  been 


242  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

pestered  by  many  beggars  since  she  came  into  Philip  Fitz- 
Gerald's  money ;  and  yet  even  for  a  beggar  the  time  was 
tactlessly  chosen. 

Ellen  stood  aside  respectfully  holding  open  the  door, 
and  there  came  into  the  room  a  little  elegant  figure  in  a 
little  serge  suit  of  Puritan  sobriety,  topped  by  an  astra- 
chan  cap  and  a  flying  black  veil.  A  beggar?  Hardly; 
those  clothes  were  of  the  plainest,  but  they  smacked  of 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  a  mile  off,  and  even  the  mendicant 
who  only  begs  for  charity  is  not  apt  to  lift  up  her  skirt 
in  a  hand  as  small  as  a  child's,  over  a  Lucile  petticoat 
and  a  Viennese  shoe.  A  lady  ?  Apparently ;  and  yet  the 
scent  of  roses  which  clouded  her  was  heavier  than  Maisie 
was  accustomed  to  breathe. 

"Leave  us,  Ellen,"  said  Maisie  on  the  instant.  "I'll 
arrange  my  own  hair  to-night.  But  don't  be  out  of  the 
way,  I  may  ring  if  I  want  you." 

She  turned  to  her  visitor.  "I'm  afraid  you've  had  a 
cold  drive.  Will  you  sit  here  by  the  fire,  and  will  you 
excuse  me  if  I  go  on  dressing?  We  dine  early  to-night, 
as  I  think  my  maid  told  you,  because  there  is  a  dance 
on." 

Her  visitor  smiled.  "Please  do  not  let  me  be  in  the 
way  more  than  I  can  help.  I  know  it's  the  most  unpar- 
donable time  to  arrive,  but  I  had  something  I  really 
wanted  very  much  to  say  to  you,  and  it  was  only  after 
lunch  I  made  up  my  mind  quite  definitely  that  it  had 
better  get  said  to-day.  So  I  took  the  first  train  down 
to  Shotton,  but  it's  a  tiresome,  changing  journey,  and 
when  I  got  here  I  could  not  find  a  cab  at  once.  It  is 
very  kind  indeed  of  you  to  receive  an  utter  stranger  in 
this  unceremonious  way.  For  I  expect  I  am  an  utter 
stranger  to  you." 

Maisie  had  fetched  an  ivory  brush  and  was  taking  off 
her  dress.  She  threw  a  lawn  coat  round  her  shoulders 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  243 

and  began  to  unfasten  her  hair,  which  was  roughened 
into  curls  by  the  frosty  wind;  as  she  took  the  pins  out 
it  rolled  down  below  her  waist  in  two  thick  plaits  of 
gold,  which  scattered  into  an  iridescent  mantel  when  she 
unbraided  them. 

"At  present,"  she  said,  smiling,  "you  must  remember 
that  I  don't  even  know  your  name." 

"No,  you  don't,  do  you?  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  your 
maid  in  case  she  might  have  heard  of  me;  these  women 
know  everything.  I'm  Jenny  Essenden." 

Maisie's  comb  ran  into  a  tangle.  She  waited  a  moment 
to  ravel  it  out,  laid  the  comb  down,  and  moved  with 
her  slow  easy  stride  towards  the  bell.  Jenny  got  up 
and  threw  herself  in  front  of  it. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Ring  for  a  servant." 

"To  get  rid  of  me?  Oh!  you  virtuous  women!  Ring 
then :  get  the  footman  to  throw  me  out — who  cares  what 
happens  to  a  courtesan?" 

Maisie  looked  down  at  her  steadily.  "Mrs.  Essenden, 
if  I  don't  behave  to  you  with  civility  it  is  your  own  doing. 
If  you  had  sent  up  your  name  to  me  in  a  straightfor- 
ward way  I  should  probably  have  decided  to  see  you. 
But  when  you  worm  yourself  in  by  a  trick  what  am  I 
to  think  you  come  for,  if  it  isn't  some  more  or  less  im- 
proper motive?" 

"Well,  you're  wrong  then,"  said  Jenny  defiantly.  "Put 
yourself  in  my  place :  ah !  you  think  you  could  never  be 
in  my  place.  Now  I  wonder  if  you're  right  there?  I'm 
not  so  simple  as  to  think  all  women  are  no  better  than 
myself,  like  the  wise  man  who  said,  'II  y  a  peu  d'honnetes 
femmes  qui  ne  soient  lasses  de  leur  metier' — I'm  sure 
there  are  plenty  of  proper  ladies,  even  pretty  ones,  who 
couldn't  be  naughty  if  they  tried;  but  I'm  not  a  bit  sure 
about  you,  Miss  Archdale.  Turn  me  out — turn  me  out 


244  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

if  you're  positive  that  you  haven't  a  spice  of  my  own 
little  familiar  devil  lurking  under  that  grand  calm  blond 
temperament  of  yours." 

She  moved  away  from  the  bell.  Maisie  stretched  out 
her  hand  to  it,  hesitated,  and  finally  drew  back.  "Women 
ought  to  stick  together,"  was  her  entirely  unforeseen  re- 
ply. "I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  doing  right,  but  I  might 
equally  do  wrong  if  I  sent  you  away.  Go  on,  then: 
I'll  listen." 

She  went  on  brushing  out  her  thick  tresses.  Jenny 
with  a  soft  sigh  of  relief  returned  to  her  chair  and  leaned 
back  at  ease,  pulling  off  her  loose  gloves  and  stretching 
out  her  shoes  to  the  warmth :  small  shoes,  high-heeled, 
and  trimly  buckled  over  the  fine  silk  stocking  and  the 
fine  arched  instep.  At  this  moment,  in  the  bachelor's 
wing,  Lawrence  Sturt  was  warning  Mark  that  Jenny 
was  dangerous.  She  had  thrown  back  her  veil,  and  her 
delicate  little  face  was  bright  and  full  of  life,  as  if  she 
were  enjoying  herself. 

"I  want,"  she  said,  "to  talk  to  you  about  a  man  in 
whom  we  are  both  deeply  interested — if  you'll  confess 
it  to  be  possible  that  you  and  I  could  be  interested  in 
the  same  man  and  in  the  same  way." 

"Who  ?" 

"Mark  Sturt." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Maisie  inaudibly.  She  had  finished 
brushing  out  her  hair ;  she  began  to  gather  it  up,  Spanish 
fashion,  into  high  smooth  coils,  and  loose  ringlets  that 
shaded  her  fair  neck. 

"I  want  you,"  said  Jenny,  curling  sideways  in  her 
chair  and  watching  wide-eyed  over  her  clasped  hands, 
"to  give  him  up  to  me." 

"Assuming,  which  I  don't  admit,  that  there  is  this  dis- 
tressing rivalry  between  us" — Maisie  was  steady  under 
fire,  her  tone  was  admirable  in  its  good-humored  scorn — 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  245 

"I  should  like  to  know  why  you  want  me  to  give  him  up 
— to  you." 

"Because,"  said  Jenny  softly,  "I  have  the  better  right 
to  him." 

"Do  you  mean — forgive  my  putting  it  bluntly — that 
you're  fond  of  him?" 

"I'm  very  fond  of  him,  but  I'm  afraid  I've  traveled 
past  those  considerations.  I'm  his  mistress." 

"Since  when?" 

The  expert  Jenny  told  the  truth,  though  she  would 
have  liked  to  risk  a  lie.  "Since  the  middle  of  August." 

"I  heard  some  scandal  of  the  sort,  but  I  didn't  pay 
much  heed  to  it.  You  must  remember,  Mrs.  Essenden, 
that  Mr.  Sturt's  friends,  of  whom  I  am  one,  take  a 
strictly  practical  view  of  the  situation.  I  don't  for  a 
moment  profess  to  judge  either  him  or  you,  but  there 
is  one  judge  before  whom  every  man  in  his  position  is 
permanently  on  trial — I  mean  the  British  public.  Per- 
haps you  aren't  much  interested  in  politics?  I  dare  say 
you  don't  know  that  at  the  present  time  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  activity  going  on  in  the  political  world.  It  is 
almost  certain  that  there  will  be  a  shuffling  of  places  after 
Parliament  meets  on  the  fifth,  and  Mr.  Sturt's  friends 
hope  very  much  that  he  will  get  something  in  the  re- 
arranged Ministry.  Now  just  at  this  time  it  would  not 
do  him  any  good  to  have  his  name  mixed  up  with  any 
woman's  in  the  way  in  which  it  would  be  mixed  up  with 
yours." 

"Why  not?"  said  Jenny — "if  he  married  me?" 

"He  won't  marry  you." 

Mrs.  Essenden  gasped  under  the  insult;  and  an  insult 
it  was,  for  Maisie  would  have  said  the  same  words  in 
the  same  tone  even  if  she  had  not  known  that  Mark  could 
not  marry  Jenny  if  he  would.  Mark  Sturt  marry  a 
Jenny  Essenden?  No:  like  Henham,  Maisie  felt  pretty 


246  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

certain  that  he  would  draw  the  line  at  taking  her  into 
the  family.  She  had  not  designed  to  wound — she  had 
forborne  to  point  out  a  fallacy  in  Jenny's  argument — 
but  she  felt  no  compunction  when  she  saw  Jenny  quiver 
under  the  lash ;  it  was  good  for  Mrs.  Essenden,  probably, 
to  hear  the  truth  now  and  then ;  Jenny  in  tears  would 
have  appealed  to  Miss  Archdale's  stern  chivalry,  but 
she  was  not  saint  enough  to  pity  Jenny  triumphant. 

"You  devil!"  said  Jenny  passionately,  "why  shouldn't 
he  marry  me?  He  couldn't  take  me  any  closer  to  him 
if  I  were  twenty  times  his  wife." 

Maisie  ignored  that  remark.  She  had  taken  up  a  hand 
mirror  to  examine  her  hair,  and  the  profile  that  she  pre- 
sented to  Jenny  was  as  inexpressive  in  its  serene  good 
humor  as  if  there  had  been  no  Jenny  in  the  room. 

"Don't  you  want,"  said  Jenny,  "me  to  tell  you  how  I 
found  out  that  you  and  I  were  in  the  same  boat?" 

"Yes,  I'm  frankly  very  curious.  I  can't  think  how 
you  came  to  connect  my  name  with  Mr.  Sturt's." 

"How  could  I  but  in  the  one  way?  He  told  me  him- 
self." 

"Oh,  no,  he  didn't."  Maisie  paused  in  the  act  of  put- 
ting on  her  gown.  "Now,  Mrs.  Essenden,  this  ceases  to 
be  amusing.  When  I  promised  to  listen  to  you  I  did 
not  mean  that  I  would  listen  to  anything  you  liked  to 
invent." 

"He  told  me  himself,"  Jenny  answered  with  her  cruel 
smile.  "In  his  sleep." 

Maisie's  memory  flashed  back  over  the  still  nights  at 
Ushant.  "He  does  not  talk  in  his  sleep." 

"Good  gracious,  Miss  Archdale,"  Jenny  cried,  round- 
eyed,  "how  do  you  know  that?" 

"Sorry,"  said  Maisie  with  her  imperturbable  irony. 
"Perhaps  you  have  never  heard  him  chaffing  his  brother 
over  their  tent  experiences  in  the  Aades." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  247 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Jenny  gave  way  to  a  ripple  of  laughter. 
"Well,  it  did  sound  very — very  odd,  you  know.  But, 
since  you  know  Captain  Sturt  so  well,  perhaps  you've 
heard  him  say  that  Mark  gets  a  touch  of  fever  now  and 
then.  He  was  light-headed  one  night,  and  he  talked  of 
you  and  to  you  in  quite  a  touching  way.  He  appeared 
to  be  declining  invitations." 

Maisie  crossed  to  the  window  and  threw  it  wider  open. 
Clouds  had  come  up,  quenching  the  moonlight ;  the  snow 
had  begun  to  fall  again,  thick,  soft,  and  pure,  and  a  whirl 
of  it  was  borne  in,  on  the  breath  of  a  north  wind,  over 
Maisie's  splendid  dress,  her  glittering  wreath  of  hair, 
her  shoulders  and  breast.  She  stood  up  unmoved  under 
the  blast,  looking  out  over  the  gloomy  woods  of  Shot- 
ton,  slowly  lacing  her  dress ;  she  was  in  the  flame-color 
and  black  and  silver  of  an  old  Spanish  painting,  and  on 
the  rich  brocade  the  scattered  flakes  thawed  in  dim 
patches  of  tarnish.  Jenny  had  struck  home.  It  needed 
the  ice-blade  of  the  wind  on  her  forehead  to  keep  Miss 
Archdale  composed.  And  still  there  was  no  respite  from 
the  little  voice,  soft  and  sweet  with  its  childish  over- 
tones, which  ran  on  behind  her  in  ribald  Rabelaisian 
variations  on  the  same  theme.  Jenny's  game  was  up. 
But  the  retreating  enemy  has  always  one  resource.  He 
can  poison  the  wells. 

"You  see,  Miss  Archdale,  that  is  what  you  virtuous 
women  never  will  understand.  You  think  it  is  good  for 
us  others  to  be  shown  now  and  then  what  you  think  of 
us,  and  how  completely  we  are  beneath  your  attention 
and  the  attention  of  your  men ;  but  what  you  don't  real- 
ize, and  what  we  think  it's  good  for  you  to  realize  now 
and  then,  is  that  your  men  are  more  ours  than  yours. 
Now  I  hadn't  found  out,  when  I  came  into  this  room, 
how  helplessly  you  were  in  love  with  Mark,  but  I  did 
know  for  certain  that  Mark  was  in  some  way  or  other 


248  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

mixed  up  with  you  and  that  it  was  a  case  of  pull-devil 
pull-baker  between  you  and  me.  We  get  very  clever  at 
reading  things  like  that.  It's  our  trade,  don't  you  see,  to 
understand?  All  this  time  you've  been  talking  with  so 
much  intelligence  and  so  much  self-control  (more,  I  will 
say,  than  one  in  a  thousand  of  your  class)  about  dear 
Mark's  political  position  and  the  upset  I  should  be  to  him, 
it's  been  child's  play  for  me  to  see  that  you  haven't  known 
how  to  keep  your  voice  steady  or  conceal  the  palpitations 
that  are  going  on  under  that  pretty  little  coat.  I'm  sorry 
to  wound  your  pride,  but  why  did  you  let  yourself  get 
into  such  an  undignified  position?  Men  never  like  it. 
It  flatters  them,  but  it  annoys  them,  because  in  this  sort 
of  sport  three-quarters  of  a  man's  pleasure  lies  in  walk- 
ing up  his  birds.  I  was  quite  as  keen  on  dear  Mark  as 
you  are,  but  I  wasn't  silly  enough  to  let  him  see  it." 

The  wind  shrieked  and  rattled  in  the  chimney ;  the 
heavy-headed  elms  in  the  avenue  groaned,  rubbing  their 
great  branches  together  and  straining  under  their  weight 
of  snow.  Small  avalanches  were  rolling  down  from  the 
roof  like  minute-guns.  Jenny  cowered  over  the  fire, 
she  was  cold,  but  very  happy. 

"And  if  in  these  few  minutes  I've  been  able  to  read 
your  heart  like  a  book — if  for  all  your  money  and  your 
class  pride  I've  told  you  things  about  yourself  that  will 
sting  you  to  your  dying  day — do  you  think  it  was  any 
harder  for  me  to  read  what  was  in  Mark's  mind  when 
I  had  him  with  me  morning,  noon  and  night,  when  he 
was  off  his  guard  ?  Why,  to  take  only  the  most  obvious 
aspects  of  the  situation,  do  you  suppose  I  didn't  read 
his  letters?  He  used  to  come  to  me  with  all  sorts  of 
things  in  his  pockets,  political  letters,  letters  from  his 
brother,  bits  of  private  scandal,  silly  scribbles  from  Mrs. 
Ferrier  in  which  she  was  always  throwing  you  at  his 
head ;  and  when  his  back  was  turned  I  used  to  read 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  249 

them  all.  Used  to  ?  why,  it's  only  a  week  ago  that  he  was 
with  me!  This  is  Wednesday  night,  isn't  it? — New 
Year's  Eve  ?  Well,  he  spent  the  twenty-second  in  Green 
Street." 

The  whirl  of  flakes  had  lightened,  and  between  great, 
vague  stormfields  appeared  Orion,  the  eternal  hunter, 
girt  with  his  diamond  belt.  Incredibly  steep  precipices 
of  cloud  were  seen  silvered  by  the  flying  moon.  Below 
them  stretched  the  dark,  dense  laboring  woods,  the  frozen 
lawns.  A  night  of  tempest,  and  of  purity:  how  cold, 
and  how  remote  from  the  hushed  room  where  Jenny's 
pretty  little  voice  continued  to  dribble  poison  in  her 
enemy's  ear !  Maisie  leaned  her  forehead  on  the  window- 
pane.  An  ache  of  cruel  anguish  shook  her  so  that  she 
was  near  to  weeping — not  for  her  own  shame,  but  for 
Mark.  How  weak  they  are,  these  strong  men!  He  had 
earned  the  cross,  the  highest  military  honor ;  and  he  had 
laid  his  head  on  the  breast  of  a  Jenny  Essenden. 

"That  is  what  I  mean,"  Jenny  had  not  done  with  her 
yet,  "when  I  say  that  whatever  you  virtuous  ladies  may 
like  to  think  a  man  really  does  belong  more  to  his  mistress 
than  he  ever  does  to  you.  A  very  charming  man  mar- 
ried to  a  very  charming  woman  once  said  to  me,  'Damn 
it  all,  Jenny,  I  can't  swear  at  my  wife.'  I  often  think 
of  that  and  smile,  when  I  see  my  old  lovers  driving  with 
their  wives.  For,  after  all,  when  a  man  respects  a  woman 
he  can't  be  altogether  at  his  ease  with  her;  or  not,  at 
least,  till  he's  been  married  to  her  for  a  year  or  so,  and 
the  gloss  has  worn  off,  and  he  begins  to  swear  before  her 
if  he  doesn't  swear  at  her.  Think  what  an  advantage  it 
gives  a  woman  to  be  on  those  sort  of  terms  with  a  man 
that  he  doesn't  mind  swearing  at  her  from  the  very  first ! 
Then  again,  in  the  case  of  a  man  like  dear  Mark,  in  the 
most  devoted  marriage  there  are  all  sorts  of  reticences 
and  reserves;  he  will  want  his  wife's  love,  of  course, 


250  JENNY  ESSENtJEN 

but  he'll  want  her  to  keep  her  illusions  as  well.  So  that 
if  you,  say,  had  been  married  to  him  for  a  twelvemonth, 
I  should  still  know  more  of  the  real  Mark  than  you  would, 
because  you  would  always  have  seen  him  on  his  good 
behavior,  whereas  I " 

"Whereas  you  .  .  ." 

"Ah!"    Jenny  laughed.    "I've  seen  him  at  his  worst." 

Maisie  strolled  over  to  the  mirror  by  the  fire  to  pin  a 
Spanish  posy  of  carnations  behind  her  gold  ringlets.  She 
seemed  to  be  thoroughly  indifferent  to  Jenny's  presence 
in  the  room. 

"You  are  plucky,"  said  Jenny,  smiling  up  at  her. 
"Really  I  do  admire  you  most  awfully,  Miss  Archdale, 
and  I'm  very  sorry  for  you  too.  I  declare  I  shouldn't 
mind  going  shares  in  Mark  with  you.  I  dare  say  you're 
right  and  that  it  wouldn't  do  for  him  to  marry  me.  I 
think  I  shall  tell  him  so  next  time  I  see  him ;  he  is  sure 
to  be  back  in  Green  Street  within  the  next  few  days.  Of 
course  I  shan't  give  you  away;  I  never  give  away  an- 
other woman;  I  shall  only  tell  him  that  if  he  likes  to 
marry  you  I  won't  make  any  fuss  so  long  as  he  doesn't 
throw  his  little  Jenny  overboard.  But  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  like  that  arrangement?  It's  quite  a  common 
one,  only  the  wives  don't  as  a  rule  know  anything  about 
it.  They're  proud,  you  see,  the  proper  ladies  are ;  but 
you're  so  dreadfully  in  love  that  I  don't  suppose  you 
would  be  very  proud."  She  glanced  at  her  watch.  "How- 
ever, I  can't  settle  that  till  I  get  Mark  to  myself  again. 
You  haven't  heard  him  speak  of  running  up  to  town, 
have  you?  On  business?  Well,  when  you  do,  you'll 
know  what  it  means."  She  began  drawing  on  her  gloves. 
"Ten  days  ago — yes,  I  think  he'll  turn  up  pretty  soon." 

There  was  the  impudence  of  a  street  Arab  in  her  deft 
little  wink.  It  broke  the  spell.  The  tears  that  ached  be- 
hind Maisie's  eyeballs  dried  up  in  flame.  She  took  a  step 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  251 

towards  Jenny,  and  her  hand  clenched  itself  much  like 
Lawrence  Sturt's.  Decidedly  there  was  that  in  Mrs.  Es- 
senden  which  appealed  to  primitive  instincts.  Jenny 
started  up,  she  had  no  mind  to  be  beaten. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Maisie  good-humoredly.  "I 
was  only  going  to  ring  the  bell.  I  really  don't  think 
you  can  have  any  more  to  say?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  It's  nearly  seven'  o'clock,  isn't 
it?"  said  Jenny.  She  glanced  into  the  mirror  as  she 
drew  down  her  veil.  "Thank  you  very  much  for  your 
courtesy  to  a  poor  little  outcast.  Now  I  mustn't  keep 
the  cab  waiting  any  longer,"  she  was  making  for  the 
door.  "To  be  sure,  it's  Mark  who  pays." 

She  gave  Maisie  her  little  smiling  bow,  and  vanished. 
Almost  in  the  doorway  Ellen  passed  her ;  Ellen  who  had 
had  misgivings  after  all,  and  had  waited  in  the  corridor 
just  out  of  earshot,  in  case  her  mistress  were  to  ring  for 
her.  As  Ellen  drew  up  and  curtsied,  Jenny  gave  another 
little  laugh  and  a  little  wriggle  of  her  shoulders.  She 
had  a  sudden  conviction  that,  if  Ellen  had  known  one 
word  in  twenty  that  Jenny  had  been  saying,  Jenny  would 
have  been  slapped. 

When  Ellen  came  into  the  room  Maisie  was  bending 
over  her  jewel  case. 

"Miss  Maisie!  whatever's  the  matter?" 

"Find  my  keys." 

"They're  in  the  pocket  of  your  blue  serge,"  said  Ellen 
shortly.  She  was  not  used  to  the  imperative  mood,  and 
she  flounced  over  to  the  wardrobe. 

"Thanks.     Is  my  hair  smooth?" 

"Yes,  miss.  Why,  it's  all  damp!  Miss  Maisie  dear, 
whatever's  the  matter?" 

Maisie  stood  erect,  looking  herself  over  from  head  to 
foot  in  the  tall  mirror.  "Really  I'm  looking  very  hand- 
some. Flora  made  a  success  of  this  dress,  faith,  she  did ! 


252  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Rather  daring,  a  Spanish  dress  for  a  woman  as  fair  as 
I  am ;  but  I  believe  the  Gothic  strain  is  often  blonde  like 
me." 

"Miss,  do  you  know  you've  got  the  window  op'en  and 
the  snow  have  come  in  all  over  her  ladyship's  carpet?" 

"Shut  it,  then,  and  don't  look  so  startled ;  I'm  not  a 
ghost !  Pin  up  this  fold  of  brocade — there,  that  goes  bet- 
ter; I  hate  folds  that  fall  crookedly.  Now  give  me  my 
diamonds." 

"Miss,  you  won't  never  wear  your  diamonds  for  a 
little  dance  like  this?" 

"The  circlet  in  my  hair,  the  collar  and  chain,  the  brace- 
lets, and  the  star  in  my  dress.  Don't  worry,  Nelly ;  I've 
had  a — a  facer,  and  the  diamonds  are  a  prop  to  my  self- 
respect.  You  knew  the  foreign  woman  wasn't  up  to  any 
good?  Wrong  both  times,  Nelly;  she  happened  to  be 
cockney,  and  it  wasn't  she  who  administered  the  facer;  I 
don't  care  two  straws  for  her  one  way  or  the  other. 
You're  not  to  sit  up-  for  me,  do  you  hear  ?  It  is  an  order, 
so  good  night." 

She  caught  up  her  long  white  gloves  and  left  Ellen 
to  hen  own  reflections. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  hall  when  Maisie  came  down 
the  great  staircase.  An  immense  Yule  log  blazed  between 
silver  andirons  on  the  hearth,  and  the  candles  set  high 
in  silver  sconces  flickered  lightly  in  the  draught.  As  she 
neared  the  foot  of  the  stair,  Mark  Sturt  came  out  of  the 
gun-room.  He  wore  the  court  dress  of  a  Tudor  ancestor, 
and  its  rich  strangeness  set  off  his  heavy  distinction.  He 
stopped  dead  at  sight  of  Maisie  in  her  Spanish  draperies 
and  constellation  of  diamonds;  five  minutes  earlier,  and 
it  would  have  been  Jenny  that  he  met. 

"Salutations !"  he  said,  coming  forward.  "We  shall  not 
need  any  lamps  to-night,  Maisie.  You  blaze." 

His  wife  remained  standing  on  the  last  step  but  one, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  253 

her  bare  right  hand  clenched  over  the  balustrade.  "If 
he  went  away  to  Green  Street  now  and  then  I  wouldn't 
care  .  .  ."  It  had  been  easy  to  feel  that  when  she  had 
never  seen  Mrs.  Essenden.  Perhaps  the  facile  forgive- 
ness of  women  springs,  more  often  than  their  husbands 
understand,  from  ignorance. 

Mark  glanced  round  the  deserted  hall.  He  had  meant 
to  settle  with  Jenny  before  approaching  his  wife,  but 
Jenny  was  on  the  eve  of  settlement,  and  after  all  a  New 
Year's  Night  revel  counts  for  little  either  way. 

"I  want  a  dance,  Maisie.  Don't  say  you've  given  them 
all  to  my  brother  or  to  Mr.  Forester?" 

"A  dance  ?" 

"One  of  the  old  waltzes,"  Mark  explained.  "  'El  Do- 
rado/ or  'Toreador/  or  the  barcarolle  out  of  the  Contes 
d'Hoffman.  I'm  going  to  bribe  the  orchestra.  It  will 
cheer  me  up  before  I  go." 

"Before  you  go?" 

"Didn't  you  know  I  was  going  away  to-morrow?" 

"Oh !    Are  you  ?    Running  up  to  town,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,"  said'  Mark,  faintly  startled.  "But  only  for  a 
single  night " 

"On  business?" 

"Business  of  a  sort,  yes " 

"And  you  want  your  dance  with  me  first?"  said  Maisie, 
smiling  down  at  him.  "Oh,  Mark!  I'm  afraid  your 
tastes  are  as  Catholic  as  your  faith." 

He  drew  back,  and  his  manner  was  to  the  full  as 
haughty  as  her  own.  "I  beg  your  pardon?  I  don't  fol- 
low." 

"Shall  I  translate?"  said  Maisie.  She  flicked  him 
across  the  eyes  with  the  gloves  that  she  carried  in  her 
hand.  "Is  that  clear?" 

"Perfectly,  thanks,"  said  Mark,  his  color  changing  grad- 
ually from  his  bronzed  fairness  to  a  dusky  shade  of 


254  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

gray.  "Don't  do  that  again,  Maisie."  He  took  the 
gloves  out  of  her  hand.  "Silly  trick.  You  tempt  me  to 
remind  you  that  you're  my  wife." 

A  door  slammed  on  a  landing  and  Lawrence  Sturt 
appeared  on  the  stairs.  It  seemed  to  be  his  fate  that 
evening  to  play  eavesdropper  on  his  brother,  for  as  he 
stepped  over  the  threshold  his  keen  ear  caught  Maisie's 
reply — 

"Thanks,  I  remember  everything.  This  time  the  door 
is  locked  on  the  inside." 

Lawrence  passed  his  hand  across  his  lips  to  brush  away 
a  smile.  He  was  sorry  for  Mark,  who  seemed  to  be  in 
hot  water  all  round,  but  he  was  also  faintly  amused. 
These  moralities  and  these  emotions! 


CHAPTER    XVI 
"On  a  bien  de  la  peine  a  rompre  quand  on  ne  s'aime  plus." 

MARK  yawned  himself  downstairs  before  eight 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  New  Year's  Day,  and 
read  the  paper  over  a  solitary  breakfast  to  the  tune  of 
flames  crackling  on  the  hearth  and  a  bleak  wind  howling 
round  the  snow-jammed  windows.  To  his  surprise,  when 
he  came  out  into  the  hall,  he  found  Lawrence  pulling  on 
his  gloves  by  the  fire.  "You're  not  coming,  are  you?" 
said  Mark  in  no  very  cordial  tone. 

"Drive  you  to  the  station,"  said  Lawrence  briefly. 
"My  coat,  Basil."  His  servant,  a  Levantine  Greek  named 
Basil  Copanaris,  put  him  into  a  huge  fur  coat  and  but- 
toned it  under  his  chin  like  a  baby,  and  Lawrence  moved 
to  the  door,  where  his  own  powerful  car  was  standing 
tire-deep  in  snow.  "Bah !  I  hate  these  English  winds," 
grumbled  the  Sybarite,  settling  himself  at  the  wheel. 
Since  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  protest,  Mark  dropped 
into  the  seat  beside  him,  though  he  would  rather  have 
been  alone.  At  the  last  moment  a  man-servant  came 
hurrying  up,  a  sealed  letter  in  his  hand. 

"For  you,  sir."  Mark  took  it,  puzzled.  It  was  from 
Mr.  Mallinson,  Brown  explained:  he  had  hoped  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr.  Sturt  that  morning,  but  his 
neuritis  had  been  that  bad  all  night  that  he  wasn't  able 
to  get  up.  "It's  his  shoulder,  you  see,  sir,  fallin'  on  the 
ice." 

"Oh?  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Mark,  absently  fingering 
the  envelope.  He  lay  back  staring  out  over  the  wintry 

255 


256  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

landscape.  "All  in?"  said  Lawrence  curtly,  and  the 
great  car  shot  away. 

They  covered  the  run  to  the  station  in  silence — the 
silence,  it  must  be  owned,  of  extreme  ill-humor  on  one 
side  and  suppressed  amusement  on  the  other — which  was 
not  broken  even  when  a  violent  double  sideslip,  the  natural 
result  of  taking  ill-swept  turns  at  forty  miles  an  hour, 
hurled  them  from  the  brink  of  a  viaduct  to  the  brink 
of  a  coal  cart.  It  was  not  till  Mark  was  dumbly  extricat- 
ing himself  and  his  suit-case  from  under  Captain  Sturt's 
counterpane  of  rugs  that  Lawrence  said  what  he  had  come 
to  say.  He  leaned  far  back  over  the  side  of  the  car 
and  slapped  Mark  gently  between  the  shoulder  blades. 
Mark  shook  him  off  impatiently.  "Lord  love  you,"  said 
Lawrence,  laughing,  "what  an  amiable  beggar  it  is !  Is 
this  because  I  shot  over  your  coverts  last  night?" 

"My  train's  due  and  I'm  on  the  wrong  platform,  Law- 
rence." 

"It  shall  be  due,  and  you  shall  sprint  across  the  line  in 
front  of  it,  and  the  guard  shall  curse  you.  Was  I  shoot- 
ing over  your  coverts  last  night?" 

Mark  raised  his  gray  eyes,  clear  and  angry.  "Con- 
found you!  yes,  you  were." 

"Oho !"  said  Lawrence.  Under  his  penetrating  stare 
Mark  felt  as  though  he  were  made  of  glass.  Deep  be- 
neath the  drift  of  circumstance  and  temper  the  link  of 
birth  held  fast,  that  blood-link  which  through  all  the 
changes  and  chances  of  the  world  binds  parent  to  child 
and  brother  to  brother  and  still  more  closely  twin  to 
twin,  as  the  cables  hold  unseen  under  the  deep  seas. 
Mark's  train  ran  into  the  station;  "Beg  pardon,  sir — " 
an  anxious  porter  touched  his  cap,  and  Mark  swung  off 
unhurried.  It  was  a  retreat  in  good  order,  for  he  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  Lawrence  Sturt's  loud  laughter  ring- 
ing after  him  through  the  booking  office. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  257 

Except  to  wonder  fleetingly  whether  any  man  had  ever 
knocked  Lawrence  down,  and  if  not  why  not,  Mark  did 
not  give  much  further  thought  to  his  brother  or  to  his 
wife.  Mark  had  not  enjoyed  the  New  Year's  Eve  dance. 
Between  the  splendor  of  her  dress  and  diamonds,  and 
the  flare  of  her  own  white  beauty,  Maisie's  apparent  de- 
sign had  been  to  make  herself  the  most  conspicuous 
woman  in  the  room,  and  she  was  ably  seconded  by  Law- 
rence, who  had  never  been  known  to  hang  back  from 
any  sort  of  mischief;  the  pair  had  danced  together  half 
the  evening,  while  the  husband  and  brother  looked  on 
with  what  philosophy  he  might.  But  Mark  was  not  seri- 
ously angry  with  Lawrence,  because  he  had  recognized 
from  his  boyhood  the  futility  of  getting  angry  with 
Lawrence ;  while  his  feeling  for  Maisie  was  of  that  dur- 
able sort  which  a  man  is  content  to  postpone. 

Nor  did  he  give  to  Mallinson's  letter  all  the  attention 
it  deserved,  though  swift  study  showed  him  that  for  his 
own  ambition  it  was  vitally  important.  Mallinson  had 
scribbled  it  in  bed,  after  reading  his  own  mail ;  a  rough 
sheet,  oddly  intimate  in  tone,  or  paternal,  as  Lawrence 
said :  "because  this  shoulder  of  mine  is  an  old  enemy,  and 
if  it  gets  troublesome  I  may  have  to  go  home  and  nurse 
it  before  you  get  back.  And,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  just 
heard  from  the  Chief,  and  I  should  like  you  to  know 
how  things  stand."  For  shrewd  Dodo  Ferrier  was  right; 
Mallinson  had  taken  an  immediate  fancy  to  Mark  Sturt, 
and  liking  had  ripened  into  confidence  when  the  two 
men  compared  notes,  finding  themselves  in  agreement 
on  points  where  Mallinson  had  expected  difficulty.  "An 
able  man,"  Mallinson  had  said  to  Dodo,  "able  and  thor- 
oughly honest.  No,  my  dear,  the  quality  of  political 
honesty  is  not  so  common  as  you  seem  to  think,  and  the 
men  who  can  convince  the  public  and  their  own  col- 
leagues that  they  possess  it  are  sure  to  get  on — if,  that 


258  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

is,  they  have  the  necessary  backing  in  the  way  of  posi- 
tion and  brains.  Your  friend  Sturt  has  all  that,  and 
his  business  training  will  come  in  very  useful.  We  want 
new  blood."  So  Mallinson  wrote  in  the  double  charac- 
ter of  personal  friend  and  Minister  of  State.  Mark, 
however,  put  the  letter  by,  placing  it  carefully  in  his 
pocket-book  and  the  pocket-book  in  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat,  for  George  Mallinson  in  confidential  vein  was 
occasionally  more  witty  than  discreet.  Mark  was  drop- 
ping with  sleep  after  a  white  night,  and  he  lay  back 
and  shut  his  eyes,  but  no  sleep  came.  "Think  hard, 
Mark;  think  like  the  devil."  He  had  an  ugly  interview 
before  him,  and  Lawrence  Sturt's  warning  haunted  him 
more  than  he  cared  to  own. 

It  haunted  him  in  the  train,  in  a  hasty  lunch  at  his 
flat,  and  in  the  motor-brougham  which  whirled  him  to 
Jenny's  door;  it  haunted  him  because  he  could  not  for 
his  life  see  where  danger  lurked  for  him  in  or  after  his 
break  with  Jenny.  Another  man,  mindful  of  his  own 
earlier  degradation,  might  have  feared  the  worse  disaster 
of  a  relapse ;  but  for  Mark,  reared  in  Catholic  traditions 
and  with  a  distinct  natural  bent  towards  asceticism,  that 
risk  was  barred.  Prudence  hinted  that  to  go  to  Green 
Street  was  to  expose  himself  to  the  hottest  fire  of  tempta- 
tion, but  Mark,  though  he  had  read  Sapho,  felt  safe 
on  that  score.  It  was  necessary  to  visit  Jenny  because 
he  agreed  with  Lawrence  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
write  to  her,  but  so  far  as  personal  feeling  was  con- 
cerned Mark  would  never  willingly  have  gone  near  her 
again. 

In  a  fit  of  newborn  caution,  he  dismissed  the  brougham 
before  he  got  to  Green  Street,  and  walked  to  the  door. 
Jenny  was  certainly  at  home;  the  aspect  of  the  little 
house,  the  glitter  of  its  brass  dragon  knocker,  the  gay 
window-boxes  blooming  extravagantly  with  cut  flowers 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  259 

in  January,  proclaimed  her  dainty  presence.  But  when 
Mark  rang  the  tall  parlormaid's  face  fell  as  she  opened 
the  door.  Yes,  Mrs.  Essenden  was  at  home,  but  she  was 
not  in,  and  would  not  be  in  for  some  time,  perhaps  not 
before  night;  she  had  gone  to  a  matinee  and  was  going 
on  to  tea  somewhere  afterwards.  The  maid  stood  with 
the  door  in  her  hand,  and  Mark  hesitated;  it  might  be 
better  to  write  a  line  and  ask  Jenny  to  be  at  home  at  a 
given  hour  next  day.  But  on  second  thoughts  Mark  did 
not  care  to  defer  the  operation.  Better  go  through  with 
it  and  cut  the  ropes  that  bound  him  before  lying  down 
for  another  night's  rest.  Rest!  it  seemed  to  Mark  that 
he  had  had  no  rest  since  before  he  went  to  Ushant. 

If  he  had  felt  any  further  indecision,  Polly  Whibley's 
demeanor  would  have  settled  it.  She  did  not  want  him 
to  come  in;  she  urged  the  uncertainty  of  Jenny's  return, 
the  tedium  of  the  long  hours  of  waiting.  Struck  by  a 
sudden  suspicion,  Mark  put  a  query  point-blank;  had 
Mrs.  Essenden  gone  out  alone?  He  got,  as  he  had  half 
expected,  a  confused  and  shuffling  stammer.  Yes,  she 
was  alone ;  oh,  yes,  certainly,  she  was  alone — no,  she  was 
not  bringing  any  one  back  with  her.  Mark  was  disgusted 
with  himself  for  having  stooped  to  question  a  servant. 
He  put  the  girl  aside  and  strode  past  her  into  the  house ; 
the  first  object  on  which  his  eye  fell  was  a  man's  walk- 
ing stick  thrown  across  the  hall  table.  Mark  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  registered  the  fact  for  use  against 
Jenny  if,  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself,  she  turned  nasty; 
not  that  there  was  any  reason  why  Mrs.  Essenden  should 
not  receive  visits  from  her  men  friends,  or  go  with  them 
to  a  play !  but,  taking  that  stick  in  conjunction  with  Polly 
Whibley's  manner,  he  was  sure  enough  of  his  ground 
to  risk  a  stray  shot. 

He  looked  round  the  little  hall  and  cast  his  mind  back 
to  the  last  visit  he  had  paid  in  Green  Street.  True  to 


260  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

the  streak  of  caution  which  sometimes  influenced  his  ac- 
tions more  than  it  became  definite  in  his  thoughts,  he  had 
on  every  occasion  been  on  his  guard  against  leaving  any 
of  his  own  property  behind  him;  he  could  not  call  to 
mind  that  Jenny  had  any  possessions  of  his  or  any  letters, 
unless  it  were  the  most  trivial  of  notes.  He  went  into 
the  morning-room  and  looked  round.  Nothing:  not  a 
trace  of  masculine  occupation  except  a  book  on  political 
economy,  which  had  no  name  in  it,  though  an  observer 
might  have  safely  argued  that  it  was  not  Jenny's  own 
choice  in  literature.  In  the  drawing-room  there  was  not 
even  a  book.  Polly  the  maid  had  followed  him  and  stood 
fingering  her  apron — perhaps  she  thought  he  was  looking 
for  a  different  sort  of  evidence.  But  Mark  sent  her 
sharply  about  her  business,  and  she  obeyed  him;  prob- 
ably all  the  servants  knew,  though  none  of  them  could 
have  proved,  that  in  that  house  Mr.  Sturt  was  pay- 
master. 

When  the  door  had  shut  which  banished  Polly  to  the 
kitchen  quarters,  Mark  went  upstairs  to  Jenny's  room. 
It  was  as  it  had  always  been,  white,  fresh,  and  dainty; 
he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  it  except  that  it  was  kept 
at  too  warm  a  temperature,  and  that  it  was  too  full  of 
roses — branched  and  budding  roses,  white  and  pink,  La 
France  and  Chatenay,  Jenny's  favorite  flower.  On  a  table 
by  her  pillow  lay  a  Garden  of  the  Soul,  hand-bound  in 
white  vellum,  an  Imitation  of  Christ,  a  Key  of  Heaven,  a 
Rosary  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  manuals  of  Catholic  devo- 
tion— Jenny's  devotion !  Mark  turned  over  the  little 
books  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile,  remembering  how 
Jenny  had  stormed  one  day  when  he  threatened  to  put 
them  in  the  fire.  Decidedly  that  was  one  of  the  occa- 
sions when  he  had  not  been  nice  to  Jenny!  Near  the 
door  hung  a  little  Holy- Water  stoup,  and  in  a  shrine, 
so  placed  that  Jenny's  eye  lit  on  it  when  she  woke  of  a 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  261 

morning,  blessed  candles  were  burning  before  a  tall  cruci- 
fix in  ebony  and  silver.  A  pair  of  long  white  gloves, 
exquisitely  fresh — Mark  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Essenderi 
in  any  garment  that  was  not  spotless — lay  on  the  sofa 
beside  a  pair  of  French  mules,  little  rosy  slippers  that 
recalled  a  little  rosy  foot.  Pretty  gloves !  pretty  shoes ! 
Of  any  other  tenancy  there  was  again  not  a  trace. 

Mark  passed  on  into  the  dressing-room.  Here  if 
anywhere  he  might  have  left  something  behind.  But  he 
had  not  done  so.  He  glanced  through  the  drawers  and 
found  them  empty,  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  writing 
portfolio,  he  even  examined  the  blotting  paper,  but  it 
was  an  illegible  blur  in  which  not  a  line  of  his  own  writ- 
ing was  discernible.  It  was  an  ironic  commentary  on 
Mark's  own  folly  that  he  should  have  risked  so  much 
for  a  relation  which  had  meant  so  little  to  him.  As  he 
stood  in  the  dressing-room  he  could  not  get  up  any  senti- 
ment at  all.  Even  the  fury  which  Lawrence's  tale  had 
inspired  in  him  was  cooling  as  he  passed  back  through 
Jenny's  chamber.  It  had  been  an  ugly  episode,  but  it 
was  over  now,  so  completely  relegated  to  the  past  that 
it  was  hardly  worth  a  man's  while  even  to  feel  disgust; 
what  did  it  signify,  after  all?  what  signify  the  Jenny 
Essendens  of  this  world,  and  what  they  do  or  are  done 
by?  Mark  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  came  down- 
stairs breathing  more  freely  now  that  he  had  got  away 
from  that  eternal  scent  of  roses. 

The  house  remained  perfectly  quiet.  He  went  into 
the  drawing-room  and  dropped  into  a  chair  before  the 
fire.  Almost  immediately  Polly  Whibley  reappeared  to 
know  if  he  would  like  some  tea.  Mark  packed  her  off 
again,  the  more  sharply  that  he  saw  she  wanted  to  speak 
to  him ;  if  he  could,  he  would  have  said,  "My  good  girl, 
you  are  sorry  for  me  because  your  mistress  is  deceiving 
me,  and  you  would  like  either  to  get  me  out  of  the  way 


262  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

or  to  break  the  news  to  me  and  soften  the  shock  of  her 
return ;  you  may  save  yourself  the  trouble,  for  your  mis- 
tress can  go  to  the  devil  for  all  I  care,  and  as  you  seem 
to  be  a  decent  sort  of  girl  I  strongly  advice  you  to  take 
example  by  me  and  clear  out  of  the  house."  In  the  mani- 
fest impossibility  of  saying  any  such  thing,  he  dismissed 
Polly  to  the  kitchen  and  disposed  himself  to  wait.  He 
was  tired — dead  tired;  he  had  had  little  sleep  the  last 
few  nights,  and  little  peace  of  mind  by  day.  It  was 
not  unpleasant  to  sit  by  Jenny's  fire  for  an  hour  or  two 
and  immerse  oneself  in  vague  dreams  of  the  future, 
even  though  there  was  still  a  stiff  bridge  to  cross  be- 
fore those  dreams  could  be  realized.  .  .  .  He  fell  asleep. 

"Wake  up,  Mark!"  said  Jenny's  voice,  playful  and 
soft.  "You've  had  a  nice  little  nap.  Do  come  in,  Mr. 
Horton,  he's  wakened  up  now." 

Mark  came  to  himself  with  a  start  and  a  glance  at  the 
clock.  It  was  close  on  night;  he  had  slept  for  hours, 
the  drugged  exhausted  sleep  which  comes  after  long 
vigils.  The  room  was  full  of  light,  and  Jenny  was 
standing  by  his  chair  in  her  theater  dress  of  black  silk 
and  gauze,  an  ermine  scarf  slipping  from  her  transpar- 
ent shoulders.  In  the  opening  doorway  appeared  the  tall 
thin  figure  of  George  Horton,  his  lined  features  pinched 
into  a  nervous  grin. 

"Mrs.  Essenden!  I  apologize  for  my  behavior,"  said 
Mark,  getting  to  his  feet.  "Your  maid  said  you  would 
be  in  to  dinner,  so  I  took  leave  to  wait  for  you,  and  I 
suppose  the  hot  room  after  the  cold  outside  made  me 
drowsy.  How  are  you,  Horton?  You  look  rather  blue. 
Take  my  place,  won't  you  ?" 

"We've  been  to  a  theater,"  said  Jenny,  drawing  off 
her  gloves.  "Mr.  Horton  took  pity  on  my  loneliness. 
It  wasn't  a  very  good  play,  though.  Rather  a  melan- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  263 

choly  piece,  about  a  poor  girl  that  was  deserted  by  her 
lover.  You'll  both  stay  and  dine,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks  very  much,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that,"  Mark 
replied.  "If  Mr.  Horton  will  excuse  us,  I  should  like 
just  ten  minutes  of  your  time  on  a  small  matter  of  busi- 
ness ;  you  don't  mind,  do  you,  Horton  ?  I  shan't  keep 
Mrs.  Essenden  long." 

Surprise,  relief,  amusement  were  legibly  inscribed  one 
after  the  other  on  Horton's  features.  Though  he  was 
no  coward,  Horton  would  not  have  gone  to  Green  Street 
that  night  if  he  had  known  Mark  Sturt  would  be  there, 
and  while  Jenny  went  to  reconnoiter  in  the  drawing- 
room  he  had  shivered  by  the  hall  fire,  mentally  measur- 
ing his  own  attenuated  muscles  against  Sturt's  superior 
inches  and  powerful  frame ;  when  Jenny  called  to  him, 
Horton  had  gone  in  to  back  her  up  in  rueful  anticipation 
of  a  shindy;  but  apparently  there  was  to  be  no  shindy! 
The  master  of  the  house  had  accepted  his  situation  with- 
out a  murmur.  Horton  was  amused,  and  pigeon-holed 
the  affair  in  a  retentive  memory  as  worth  telling  for  its 
flatness,  but  he  was  happy  to  be  let  off  the  risk  of  broken 
bones.  And  Jenny?  Jenny  was  merry  and  placid;  she 
turned  to  Horton  with  a  little  wave  of  her  baby  hands. 
They  were  covered  with  rings  and  bracelets  that  Sturt 
and  other  men  had  given  her. 

"Do  you  mind — you  don't? — smoking  a  cigarette  in 
the  morning-room  for  just  ten  minutes?  It  will  be  as 
long  as  that  before  dinner  is  ready,  so  you  won't  lose 
anything  by  waiting." 

Inimitable  Jenny !  She  made  no  apologies  or  explana- 
tions on  either  side;  she  waited  till  Horton  had  gone 
out,  and  then  when  she  had  shut  the  door  behind  him 
she  returned  with  her  funny  little  reflective  smile  and 
sat  down  opposite  Mark  in  a  high-backed  Chippendale 


264  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

chair.  Qearly  Mark  had  learned  the  truth  from  Law- 
rence: in  Jenny's  opinion  it  was  on  the  cards  that  Miss 
Archdale  also  had  been  telling  tales.  But  Mrs.  Essen- 
den  had  burned  her  boats  when  she  went  to  Shotton,  and 
in  George  Horton  she  had  provided  an  overland  retreat. 
"Well,"  she  said,  "and  what  has  my  lord  and  master 
to  say  to  his  handmaiden?" 

"Little  enough.  I  won't  keep  Horton  waiting  long, 
Jenny." 

"Oh,"  said  Jenny  with  an  ambiguous  laugh,  "he  won't 
mind." 

"He  can  take  his  own  time,  you  mean?"  said* Mark. 

He  stopped.  Horton  had  been  nearer  than  he  knew 
to  broken  bones ;  after  all,  whatever  Mrs.  Essenden  was 
now,  she  had  been  Mark's  ten  days  ago,  and  something 
in  him  older  than  morality,  older  than  love,  very  much 
older  than  prudence,  revolted  against  this  tame  ac- 
quiescence in  another  man's  poaching.  But  he  was  on 
his  guard;  he  saw  the  latent  spark  in  Jenny's  eye,  recog- 
nized his  own  danger,  and  shifted  his  ground. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  indulge  in  recriminations.  Your 
movements  are  entirely  at  your  own  disposal  from  this 
time  onward.  The  connection  between  us  ceases  from 
to-night.  If  you  have  any  further  communications  to 
make  to  me,  you'll  make  them  through  my  lawyers." 

"Oh?"  said  Jenny  softly.     "Yes?" 

"I'm  giving  them  instructions  to  pay. the  rent  of  the 
house  and  the  servants'  wages  up  to  next  Lady  Day." 

"Riccardo  will  be  amused,"  Jenny  murmured. 

"In  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  have  given  you 
fair  warning  before  I  broke  with  you,  and  so  far  as  the 
financial  aspect  is  concerned  I  propose  to  do  the  same 
now:  if,  that  is,  you  keep  the  few  conditions  I  make." 

"Yes?" 

"Not  to  try  to  see  me :  not  to  write  to  me :  not  to  do 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  265 

what  I  hear  you  were  insane,  enough  to  threaten  doing 
— make  a  scene  at  any  house  where  I  may  happe'n  to  be 
staying." 

Jenny  nestled  her  head  back  against  a  cushion  and 
her  teeth  closed,  softly  on  her  lower  lip.  She  had  won 
that  trick,  then ;  her  tongue  had  done  its  work  with  Miss 
Archdale.  Jenny  hugged  herself  for  joy.  She  could 
hardly  think  of  her  excursion  to  Shotton  without  laugh- 
ing in  Sturt's  face. 

"That's  all  I  have  to  say,"  said  Mark,  reaching  for 
his  gloves.  All  things  considered,  it  was  not  much.  Five 
months  he  had  lived  with  Jenny,  and  he  was  prepared 
to  break  with  her  in  as  many  sentences.  He  had  not 
loved  her  nor  she  him,  and,  though  he  knew  that  she 
laced  her  stays  from  the  middle  and  pattered  her  prayers 
in  French,  she  was  essentially  a  stranger  to  him.  Tempta- 
tion? It  was  dead;  Lawrence  Sturt's  tale  had  killed  it, 
apparently.  Mark  rarely  analyzed  his  own  motives,  and 
he  saw  no  incongruity  in  the  terms  of  his  farewell  to 
Jenny,  nor.  could  he  have  explained  why  he  was  no  longer 
allured  by  her  exquisite  facility  and  grace.  He  had  but 
one  thing  more  to  say,  and  he  said  it  as  he  rose.  "I 
ought  to  warn  you  that  if  you  try  your  hand  at  any  dan- 
gerous game  I  shall  set  the  police  in  motion.  A  prosecu- 
tion for  libel,  Mrs.  Essenden,  is  a  thing  some  men  are 
disinclined  to  face ;  I  shouldn't  have  the  slightest  scruple 
in  handling  it,  and  it  generally  results  in  a  swingeing 
bill  for  damages." 

"You  are  not  very  nice  to  me,  are  you?"  said  Jenny, 
smiling  up  at  him.  "Not  very  nice  to  me,  Mark,  after 
all  these  months,  to  talk  of  prosecuting  me  for  libel !  Me ! 
poor  little  me !  What  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you 
should  scold  me  like  this?  What  makes  you  think  I 
would  do  anything  dreadful?  I'm  sure  I'm  a  very  peace- 
able little  person.  I  only  want  people  to  be  nice  to  me." 


266  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Yes,  it's  a  shame,  isn't  it?"  Sturt  answered  with  his 
unexpected  laugh.  "Poor,  ill-used  Jenny!" 

"Well,  I  do  think  it  is  a  shame !"  Jenny  cried.  "You 
may  go  away  if  you  like — I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  keep 
you  if  you  don't  want  to  stay — but  why  need  you  be  so 
horrid  over  it?  I  never  did  you  any  harm.  I  admit  I 
did  make  love  to  you  a  little  just  at  first,  but  only  a  very 
little — you  didn't  need  much  tempting,  did  you?  Men 
never  do.  And  after  that,  all  through  the  time  at  Cleres, 

it  was  you,  and  always  you,  who And  when  I  came 

back  to  town  I  wanted  you  to  keep  away,  you  know  I 
did,  but  you  would  come  to  see  me  here,  though  I  said  I 
didn't  like  it.  But  you  were  so  impetuous."  She  stopped ; 
she  could  have  stabbed  his  pride  very  deeply  if  she  had 
told  him  what  she  knew,  that  he  had  used  her  as  an  ano- 
dyne. It  has  been  said  that  Jenny  possessed  tastes, 
though  she  lacked  principles,  and  her  taste  precluded  that 
particular  taunt  as  hitting  below  the  belt.  "And  now 
as  soon  as  you  are  tired  of  me  you  think  I  shall  want  to 
blackmail  you.  Men  are  all  brutes  when  they  get  tired 
of  women,  but  I  did  think,  Mark,  you  would  always  be  a 
gentleman." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  faintly  amused,  quite  impas- 
sive. "Yes,  it's  very  sad.  Cheer  up :  tell  Horton  all 
about  it." 

"Oh!"  said  Jenny  under  her  breath.     She  snatched  a 
handkerchief  from  her  bosom  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips : 
she  bit  into  the  cambric :  Mark  shuddered,  the  soundless 
writhing  spasm  was  so  like  that  of  a  trapped  beast.    For 
the  first  time  in  all  his  experience  of  Jenny  he  felt  afraid 
of  her.     But  nothing  happened;  she  wiped  her  lips,  and 
slipped  the  handkerchief  back  among  her  soft  laces. 
"Good  night,"  said  Mark. 
"Good-by,  Mark,"  said  Jenny. 
He  moved  towards  the  door.    Before  he  gained  it,  in 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  267 

one  spring  she  had  flung  herself  on  his  breast,  her  arms 
clasping  his  neck,  her  lips  pressed  to  his  throat,  every 
curve  of  her  slight  shape  abandoned  to  his  support. 
"Don't — don't  leave  me,  Mark,"  she  murmured,  and  he 
felt  the  heavy  throbbing  of  her  heart  under  her  thin 
laces.  "My  God,  I  love  you.  Stay  with  me  once  more. 
I'll  send  Horton  away.  Oh,  I  love  you  better  than  all 
the  world." 

"Better  than  my  brother?" 

Shaking  from  head  to  foot,  Sturt  wrenched  open  the 
clasped  arms  with  small  regard  for  Jenny  Essenden's 
womanhood.  He  threw  her  from  him  across  a  chair — 
it  was  mere  chance  that  she  did  not  fall  on  the  floor. 
Horton  heard  the  noise,  and  dashed  in ;  he  would  have 
stopped  Mark,  but  Mark  pushed  him  out  of  the  way 
with  a  touch  and  escaped  into  the  street.  He  was  still 
unpleasantly  shaken  as  he  shut  the  house  door  behind 
him,  but  he  was  sufficiently  master  of  his  nerves  to  have 
caught  up  his  hat  and  stick  as  he  crossed  the  hall,  and 
before  he  turned  out  of  Green  Street  he  had  regained  his 
composure.  It  had  been  an  ugly  scene — a  very  ugly 
scene :  but  there  had  been  no  danger  in  it  after  all,  and 
it  was  over  now :  he  had  set  foot  in  the  little  house  for 
the  last  time:  he  had  done  with  Jenny  Essenden  forever. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

MARK  went  home  and  went  to  bed.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  never  been  so  tired  in  his  life,  and 
he  went  straight  to  his  own  room,  refusing  even  Hen- 
ham's  offer  of  dinner.  He  could  not  eat;  Jenny  had 
taken  away  his  appetite.  All  he  wanted  was  to  sleep — 
sleep  and  forget  the  existence  of  Mrs.  Essenden;  and 
he  flung  off  his  clothes  and  flung  himself  into  bed  as  a 
man  does  who  feels  a  heavy  sickness  coming  on  him. 
But  it  was  health,  not  sickness,  that  was  coming  to  Mark 
Sturt — health  and  the  prospect  of  sweet  calm  slumber 
after  so  many  fevered  hours. 

He  slept  without  turning  till  eight  o'clock  next  morn- 
ing, and  woke  feeling  as  he  had  not  felt  since  the  early 
days  at  Ushant;  full  of  life  and  vigor,  keenly  looking 
forward  to  the  day  before  him.  He  rang,  and  Henham 
brought  him  tea  and  letters,  among  which  he  was  amused 
to  find  a  note  from  Lawrence.  "How  have  you  sped? 
For  heaven's  sake  let  me  know.  I  have  had  devastating 
premonitions  of  evil  all  day.  Do  not  murder  the  lady, 
at  all  events — the  prettiest  of  pretty  women  is  not  worth 
getting  hanged  for."  Mark  laughed,  and  tossed  the  char- 
acteristically indiscreet  little  missive  into  the  fire :  yes, 
Lawrence  should  hear  without  delay.  He  scribbled  a 
telegram  to  let  the  Ferriers  know  that  he  would  be  back 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  dispatched  Henham  with 
it  on  the  spot.  Mark's  irritation  had  evaporated.  After 
all,  why  blame  a  man  for  shooting  over  lands  un  fenced 
and  unguarded?  He  forgave  Lawrence,  he  forgave 
George  Horton — had  not  Horton  served  his  turn  with 

268 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  269 

Jenny? — he  forgave  Jenny  herself  because  that  little  de- 
feated enemy  was  not  worth  hating,  and,  though  Maisie 
was  not  yet  included  in  the  general  amnesty,  he  had 
every  intention  of  forgiving  her  too,  in  set  form,  before 
the  day  was  out.  His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  rehearsed  the 
scene.  "What  a  jolly  morning!"  he  said  as  the  little 
gray  man  laid  out  his  clothes.  It  was  a  brilliant  frost, 
and  Henham  smiled  in  decorous  sympathy;  he  was  sin- 
cerely glad  to  see  Mark  looking  so  fit  and  cheerful  again, 
so  much  better  than  was  to  be  expected  of  a  man  who  had 
had  no  dinner.  Henham  did  not  like  unsettled  ways. 

Mark  bathed   and   dressed  himself,   and   came   down 
about  nine  o'clock  very  hungry.     For  some  time  his  at- 
tention was  concentrated  on  his  eggs  and  bacon,  but  at 
length  he  found  himself  at  liberty  to  unfold  the  morning 
paper  and  glance  through  the  headlines.     He  skimmed 
his  own  Liberal  sheet  first,  found  nothing  in  it  of  conse- 
quence, and  turned  to  the  leading  Tory  organ,  the  Jour- 
nal.   "Railway  Disaster  at  Sutton,"  he  read :  "American 
Labor     Storm":     "British     Naval     Rights" — how     that 
smacked  of  old  days !     "Ministerial  Changes" — on  the 
last  he  fastened.     Tentative  lists  are  more  often  wrong 
than  right,  but  the  man  who  expects  to  see  his  own  name 
will  skim  every  one  of  them.     This,  however,  was  not 
on  ordinary  lines.     "By  the  courtesy  of  a  correspondent, 
whose  name  we  hold  but  are  not  at  present  at  liberty  to 
reveal,  we  are  enabled  to  publish  the  following  commu- 
nication, which  throws  some  curious  light  on  the  system 
by  which  a  modern  Cabinet  is  formed."     Mark  passed 
on  to  the  "communication,"  and  found  himself  reading 
his  own  name :     "My  dear  Sturt." 

He  stopped  and  went  back  to  the  beginning.  "By  the 
courtesy  of  a  correspondent  .  .  ."  Yes.  But  what  was 
it  all  about?  "My  dear  Sturt,  I  very  much  regret  not 
being  able  to  get  down  to  breakfast,  as  there  are  vari- 


270  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

ous  points  which  I  should  have  liked  to  clear  up  before 
you  go.  You  will  of  course  treat  this  letter  as  most 
strictly  confidential.  ...  I  have  just  heard  from  the 
P.M.  ...  It  is  proposed  to  redistribute  certain  of  the 
vacated  offices  as  follows.  .  .  ." 

It  was  his  own  letter  from  George  Mallinson  that  he 
was  reading. 

In  the  first  terrible  revulsion  of  feeling,  Mark  sat 
still  at  the  breakfast  table  leaning  his  head  on  his  hands, 
and  staring  blankly  at  the  paper  which  was  propped 
against  the  coffee-pot.  He  could  not,  for  a  minute,  grasp 
what  had  happened.  But  there  was  Mallinson's  letter, 
printed  in  extenso,  staring  him  in  the  face :  a  letter  "most 
strictly  confidential,"  dispatched  indeed,  though  only  from 
bedchamber  to  hall,  under  Mallinson's  private  seal — and 
the  seal  had  not  been  tampered  with,  Mark  had  instinct- 
ively made  sure  of  that  before  he  broke  it  open.  "By 
the  courtesy  of  a  correspondent  .  .  ."  After  reading 
the  letter  in  the  train,  Mark  had  put  it  in  his  pocket-book 
and  the  pocket-book  in  his  breast  pocket,  and,  tired  as 
he  was  at  night,  he  had  not  forgotten  to  slip  the  case 
under  his  pillow,  ready  to  return  to  his  pocket  in  the 
morning.  He  felt  for  it,  and  found  it.  But  when  he 
opened  it  there  was  no  letter  in  it.  He  had  dropped  it, 
cr  it  had  been  taken  from  him. 

In  the  first  recoil,  most  men,  confronted  by  a  disaster, 
cry  out,  "I  do  not  believe  it,"  but  the  measure  of  the 
trained  mind  is  its  rapid  acceptance  of  facts.  Mark's 
spasm  of  skepticism  was  over  when  he  opened  the 
empty  pocket-book.  The  thing  was  done,  and  he  was 
responsible ;  his  guilt  or  innocence  was  a  side-issue. 
He  had,  however,  a  partner  in  his  official  crime.  That 
the  editor  of  a  respectable  paper  should  have  dared  to 
print  a  private  letter  which  fell  irregularly  into  his 
hands ! 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  271 

Mark  sprang  up,  taking  the  paper  with  him,  jumped 
into  a  taxi,  and  was  driven  to  the  offices  of  the  Journal. 
It  was  still  early,  but  he  sent  up  his  card,  and  was  at 
once  shown  into  the  large  shabby  room  where  the  editor- 
in-chief  was  at  work.  He  rose  as  Mark  came  in — a 
small,  spare  man  with  a  pointed  beard  and  piercing  dark 
eyes ;  it  occurred  to  Mark  that  Wynne  was  not  surprised 
to  see  him. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Mark,  curtly  civil.  "You 
publish  a  letter  of  mine  this  morning." 

"A  letter  addressed  to  you,  sir — yes,  we  do." 

"A  private  and  confidential  letter  addressed  to  me  not 
as  a  politician  but  as  a  personal  friend  of  the  writer. 
You  had  absolutely  no  right  to  print  that." 

Wynne  swung  round  on  his  revolving  chair  and  touched 
a  bell.  A  messenger  lad  entered  the  room.  "Send  Mr. 
Ashton  to  me,"  said  Wynne.  Ashton,  a  secretary,  en- 
tered within  a  few  seconds.  "Mr.  Sturt's  letter  and  the 
covering  letter,  please,  Ashton." 

"Here,  sir." 

"That'll  do."  Ashton  went  away.  Wynne  held  out 
to  Mark  the  lost  letter  from  George  Mallinson.  "That 
is,  as  you  see,  the  letter  we  publish." 

"And  had  no  right  to  publish." 

"Excuse  me.  This  is  the  covering  letter,  which  we 
did  not  publish  because  we  were  not  authorized  to  do 
so.  But  you  see  that  it  authorizes  us  to  publish  the  en- 
closure." 

Mark  took  from  Wynne's  hand  a  sheet  of  his  own 
paper,  stamped  with  the  address  of  his  own  flat. 

13,  PARK  COURT,  WESTMINSTER,  S.W.I. 

Thursday. 
Make  what  use  you  like  of  the  enclosed. 

O.    M.    STURtP. 


272  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Mark  gave  a  short,  hard  laugh.  Was  that  his  sentence 
of  political  death? 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  raising  his  head  after 
a  brief  silence.  "That  is  perfectly  clear  and  correct. 
You  were  justified  in  publishing  Mr.  Mallinson's  letter." 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  say  that  that  note  is  a 
forgery.  Believe  me  or  not  as  you  like,  Mr.  Sturt,  but 
if  I  had  dreamed  that  it  was  not  authentic  no  power  on 
earth  would  have  induced  me  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
But  it  so  happened  that  I  myself  had  been  reading  your 
Andes  book,  which  has,  you  may  remember,  a  facsimile 
of  your  signature  under  the  frontispiece;  and  on  careful 
comparison  the  handwritings  appeared  to  me  to  be  iden- 
tical. Yet  I  should  have  got  you  to  confirm  it  if  I  had 
known  you  were  in  town." 

"It  is  not  a  forgery,"  said  Mark.  "Except  that  the 
date  has  been  altered  from  Tuesday  to  Thursday.  You 
would  not  examine  that,  of  course,  and  it  has  been  very 
carefully  done;  but  if  you  hold  it  sloping  to  the  light 
you  will  see  that  it  is  so." 

Wynne  turned  the  paper  slantwise.  "Yes,  I  do  see, 
and  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  had  held  it  over  till  I 
had  consulted  you." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Mark. 

He  stood  up. 

"Sorry  to  have  made  a  fuss.  You  were,  of  course, 
entirely  correct  in  your  action.  I  shall  not  take  any 
steps  in  the  matter.  Let  it  stand  as  it  is." 

"No  withdrawal?" 

"Ah !  that  is  not  in  my  hands.  I  dare  say  I  am  not  your 
first  caller,  am  I?"  Wynne  hesitated.  "Don't  answer: 
I'm  not  asking  any  questions.  I  have  heard  nothing 
myself  so  far,  but  then  no  one  except  Mr.  Mallinson 
knows  I  am  in  town."  Mark  smiled ;  he  could  imagine 
that  the  telephone  bell  at  Shotton  had  been  kept  going. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  273 

"If  they  come  to  you,  show  them  these  letters  and  say 
what  you  said  to  me.  Don't  point  out  the  alteration  in 
the  date,  please.  I  shall  be,  as  a  personal  favor,  grate- 
ful if  you  will  forget  my  coming  here.  My  hands  are 
tied."  He  did  not  know  how  haughtily  he  spoke,  nor 
how  unwaveringly  certain  Wynne  had  grown,  in  their 
brief  interview,  that  this  man  with  the  clear  stern  eyes 
and  indifferent  manner  had  never  been  for  sale.  "Be- 
cause you're  in  it  with  me,  I  have  said  more  to  you  than 
I  shall  say  to  any  one  else.  But  you  are  clear.  You 
understand,  Mr.  Wynne,  I  take  all  responsibility  and  re- 
fuse all  explanation." 

"That  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  said  Wynne. 

The  rest  of  that  morning  passed  like  a  nightmare. 
By  the  time  Mark  got  back  to  his  flat,  the  official  world 
had  found  out  that  he  was  in  town,  and  the  only  occu- 
pation left  him  was  to  sit  in  his  chair  and  refuse  to 
answer  questions.  Theoretically  it  should  be  easy  to  say, 
"I  have  no  explanation  to  give  you,"  but  in  practice,  in 
the  teeth  of  indignant  authority,  Mark  found  his  posi- 
tion very  nearly  untenable.  He  stuck  to  it,  because  he 
had  nothing  whatever  to  gain  by  telling  the  ridiculous 
truth :  but  he  was  reminded  of  the  tortures  of  Sing-Sing. 
Henham  kept  the  journalists  at  bay.  But  Henham  could 
not  bar  out  the  sardonic  humor  of  Lord  Vere,  Arthur 
Sturt's  friend  and  Lawrence  Sturt's  godfather:  or  Con- 
sidine  Sturt,  who  had  motored  up  from  Buckingham- 
shire to  get  his  cousin's  denial;  or  the  gray-haired,  hot- 
tempered  Premier,  striding  in  to  know  "what  the  devil 
this  means,  sir?"  or  Lauderdale's  private  secretary,  silk- 
enly  hinting  that  in  the  long  run  it  pays  a  man  better 
to  be  true  to  his  salt.  .  .  . 

Mallinson  himself  appeared  shortly  after  twelve,  and 
then  Mark's  cup  of  gall  was  full.  Mallinson  was  an 
old  man,  and  the  fracas  had  shaken  him.  He  was  not 


274  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

suspicious,  he  was  not  even  angry ;  he  murmured,  "Thank 
you,  my  dear  boy,"  when  Mark,  dropping  his  guard  of 
indifference,  put  him  into  a  screened  chair  by  the  fire 
and  asked  after  his  neuritis;  but  he  was  extremely  hard 
to  face.  He  took  for  granted  that  the  letter  had  been 
stolen.  "And  I  don't  like  to  say  much,  Mark,  because 
I  recognize  that  it  is  worse  for  you  than  for  me;  but 
I  feel — I  do  feel  that  you  should  have  been  more  care- 
ful. I  should  have  told  you  to  burn  it  if  I  had  thought 
there  was  any  danger  of  your  leaving  it  about.  It — it 
really  does  make  things  so  very  awkward!  How  am  I 
ever  to  look  any  of  them  in  the  face  again?  If  it  had 
been  in  my  official  style  I  could  have  borne  it  better, 
but  the  personalities  are  too — too  terrible.  A  man  doesn't 
want  to  make  enemies  at  my  time  of  life.  Do  you  sup- 
pose Maude  or  Eley  will  ever  speak  to  me  again  ?  Never 
mind!  Never  mind!  Only  tell  me  how  it  happened." 
And  Mark  longed  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  But  to 
tell  Mallinson  the  truth  and  bind  him  to  silence  would 
be  only  dragging  Mallinson  after  him  into  the  mud,  and 
for  the  tenth  time  that  morning  Mark  gave  his  stiff, 
curt  version  of  the  affair.  It  brought  Mallinson  to  his 
feet.  "Wynne  not  to  blame  ?  You  take  the  blame  ?  .  .  . 
No  explanation  to  offer  ?  But  that  is  absurd !  You  must 
know  how  you  came  to  lose  it.  I  don't  understand  what 
you  mean  by  an  'authorization.'  You  are  not  going  to 
tell  me  that  you  intended  Wynne  to  print  that  letter?" 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  Mark  swore  in- 
wardly that  he  would  not  speak,  no,  not  till  the  inves- 
tigation was  over.  In  six  months'  time  Mallinson  should 
know  all.  So  long  as  he,  like  Mark,  was  liable  to  be 
badgered  in  cross-examination,  it  was  better  for  him  to 
be  able  to  say,  "I  wash  my  hands  of  Sturt.  He  will  tell 
me  nothing."  Which  was,  in  effect,  much  what  Mallin- 
son did  say.  .  .  .  "But  you  ought  to  explain.  You  have 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  275 

no  right  to  refuse.  No,  Sturt,  no :  I  can't  see  eye  to  eye 
with  you  here.  I  suppose  you're  shielding  some  one, 
but  if  it  were  your  own  brother  you  would  not  have  any 
right  to  shield  him.  You  owe  it  to  all  of  us  as  well  as 
to  yourself  to  speak  out." 

When  Mallinson  had  limped  out  of  the  study,  Mark 
laid  his  head  down  on  his  folded  arms  and  groaned.  He 
was  a  proud  man;  till  that  hour  he  had  never  known 
how  deeply  pride  had  struck  its  roots  in  him,  pride  in 
his  ancient  name,  in  his  unspotted  personal  honor.  He 
had  never  given  any  man  a  chance  to  accuse  him  of  a 
betrayed  confidence  or  a  broken  word.  But  now?  By 
now  the  clubs  and  country-houses  were  humming  with 
the  news  of  Mark  Sturt's  amazing  indiscretion.  He  had 
enough  faith  in  his  own  reputation  to  be  sure  that  many 
of  those  who  knew  him  would  at  least  suspend  judg- 
ment. There  would  be  a  rush  for  the  later  editions, 
and  their  columns  would  be  scanned  for  his  disclaimer. 
But  when  no  disclaimer  followed — when  it  was  whis- 
pered that  Wynne  held  Sturt's  written  authority — what 
then?  What  would  his  own  verdict  have  been?  "Got 
at,"  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "Squared  by  the  wire- 
pullers. Press  money  probably — the  Merridew  gang." 
The  Merridew  newspaper  ring  had  corrupted  bigger  men 
than  Mark  Sturt. 

But,  though  he  winced,  he  was  not  a  bit  the  more  in- 
clined to  explain  himself.  Society  is  no  sentimentalist, 
and  in  its  rule  of  thumb  judgments  probability  of  fact 
takes  precedence  of  probability  of  character;  if  he  could 
bring  himself  to  tell  the  ridiculous  truth,  all  London 
would  laugh  at  him,  and  four-fifths  of  London  would 
not  believe  a  word  of  it.  A  great  wave  of  scorn  and 
healthy  anger  went  over  Mark  as  he  reached  that  fortify- 
ing conclusion.  He  defend  himself?  He,  with  the  sol- 
dier's discipline  in  his  blood,  stoop  to  an  excuse?  He,  a 


276  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Sturt,  confess  the  slips  of  his  private  life  to  Wynne  the 
journalist,  or  to  Lauderdale's  sneering  secretary? 
"'Never!"  said  Mark  with  glimmering  eyes.  Better  set 
his  back  to  the  wall  and  fight  it  out ;  and  in  this  frame 
of  mind  he  rang  for  Henham  and  ordered  a  solid  lunch 
and  bottled  beer.  .  .  .  Well:  but  it  was  hard  luck  to 
have  to  fight,  and  fight  for  his  life,  because  once  in  thir- 
teen years  he  had  slipped  as  other  men  slip  every  day. 
That  wild-cat  Jenny! 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  whips  to  scourge  us. 

Mark  startled  Henham  by  laughing  aloud  as  he  shook 
out  his  table  napkin.  He  had  just  remembered  the  vaunt 
on  which  he  had  gone  to  sleep  overnight.  "Why  didn't 
I  touch  wood?"  he  reflected.  He  was  impenitent,  but  he 
was  not  blind  to  the  poetic  justice  of  her  betrayal.  Done 
with  Jenny  Essenden,  had  he?  Till  his  life's  end  Mark 
was  not  to  have  done  with  Jenny  Essenden. 

The  day  wore  on.  After  lunch  Mark  determined  to 
keep  to  his  original  plan  of  going  down  to  Shotton,  and 
he  left  the  flat  soon  after  two  o'clock,  directing  Henham 
to  summon  him  by  telephone  if  any  urgent  message  came 
from  Mr.  Mallinson,  and  swung  off  for  Waterloo  on  foot 
to  get  a  breath  of  air.  The  first  man  he  saw  when  he 
turned  into  Victoria  Street  was  Grayson-Drew,  the  Chief 
Whip,  whirling  past  in  an  open  car.  Mark  automatically 
raised  his  hat  to  his  official  superior,  and  Grayson-Drew 
put  up  two  fingers  in  a  stiff  unsmiling  acknowledgment. 
Mark  swung  round  and  stood  for  a  moment  following 
the  car  with  his  eyes.  A  foretaste,  this,  of  what  he  had 
to  expect?  If  he  had  not  taken  the  initiative,  Grayson- 
Drew  would  have  cut  him.  Mark  walked  on  with  a 
glowing  heart ;  he  swore  he  would  not  take  the  initiative 
again.  Well,  what  wonder  if  the  party  organizers  were 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  .    277 

in  a  rage?  there  must  be  dire  confusion  that  day  in  the 
Government  camp.  It  would  have  mattered  less  had 
Mallinson  been  less  indispensable,  or  had  his  luckless 
letter  been  less  damningly  and  comically  indiscreet.  The 
Liberal  government  could  not  get  on  without  him,  and 
yet  how  was  he  to  go  on  working  with  the  distinguished 
colleague  whom  he  had  described  as  suffering  from  golf- 
ing degeneration  of  the  brain  ? 

Meanwhile,  not  desiring  any  more  casual  meetings  till 
his  position  should  be  defined  and  regularized,  Mark  got 
into  a  taxi  and  was  driven  the  rest  of  the  way.  But  in 
town,  even  in  the  week  after  Christmas,  one  cannot  es- 
cape one's  friends.  When  Mark  had  settled  himself  with 
a  pipe  and  the  Badminton  in  the  corner  of  a  smoking 
carriage,  he  saw  coming  up  to  the  door  another  man 
whom  he  had  known  more  or  less  intimately  on  sporting 
terms  for  the  last  ten  years.  French  had  put  his  foot 
on  the  step  when  he  caught  sight  of  Mark  buried  behind 
the  tall  magazine.  He  drew  back  swiftly  and  passed  on 
to  another  compartment. 

It  was  a  bitter,  dark  afternoon  when  Mark  got  out  at 
Shotton.  The  frost  of  New  Year's  Eve  had  never 
thawed,  and  the  country  was  masked  in  snow,  feature- 
less save  where  patches  of  wood,  stripped  by  the  sud- 
den gale  on  New  Year's  night,  stood  up  black  and  bare. 
Overhead  the  clouds  lay  packed,  rank  on  rank,  no  light, 
not  even  a  western  rift,  breaking  through  their  black- 
ened fleeces;  thick  and  low  they  stooped  over  the  land, 
while  all  along  the  northern  horizon  copper-colored  gloom, 
dotted  with  grayish-white  puffs  of  moister  vapor,  rolled 
upwards  like  the  smoke  of  war.  There  was  no  cab  to 
be  had,  and  no  car  had  come  to  meet  him  because  he 
had  not  named  the  time  of  his  arrival,  and  Mark  tramped 
the  twilit  miles  to  Shotton  in  a  frame  of  mind  not  ill 
suited  to  his  surroundings.  "Think  hard,  Mark:  think 


278  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

like  the  devil."  He  remembered  that  caution  as  he  turned 
in  at  the  gate.  He  had  thought  hard,  and  had  believed 
himself  to  have  guarded  every  avenue  of  danger,  but  the 
worst  of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Essenden  had  begun  thinking 
earlier. 

Mark  reached  the  house  and  let  himself  in  by  the  open 
door.  Footmen  came  forward  to  take  his  hat  and  stick, 
and  Mark  wondered  whether  they  knew  all  about  him; 
no  doubt  the  Journal  was  taken  in  the  servants'  hall. 
He  asked  for  Mrs.  Ferrier;  she  was  out  driving  with 
Miss  Archdale,  but  Mr.  Ferrier  and  most  of  the  other 
gentlemen  were  in  the  gun-room.  Mark  nodded  and 
strolled  forward,  opening  the  door.  ".  .  .  I'd  give  a 
year  of  my  life  to  have  seen  old  Maude's  face.  .  .  ." 
Ferrier's  dropped  sentence  and  the  hush  which  fell  all 
over  the  room  told  Mark  that  his  own  affairs  had  been 
under  discussion.  Oddly  enough,  till  that  moment  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  at  Shotton,  among  his  per- 
sonal friends,  in  the  circle  that  he  had  left  not  six  and 
thirty  hours  ago,  he  could  suffer  any  embarrassment. 

Through  the  firelit  dark  he  recognized  the  more  famil- 
iar figures;  Charles  Ferrier  with  his  lean  gypsy  face 
standing  back  to  the  hearth,  his  hands  deep  in  his  trouser 
pockets ;  Roderick  Earle  lounging  on  a  couch ;  Harry 
Forester  posted  in  the  window-seat ;  Lawrence  Sturt  sit- 
ting with  folded  arms  on  the  edge  of  a  table,  one  breeched 
and  booted  leg  cocked  over  a  neighboring  chair.  Mark 
came  into  the  room,  and  found  that  he  had  not  the  faint- 
est idea  what  to  say  to  any  of  them.  He  drew  up,  and 
the  color — a  man's  rare,  heavy  blush  that  seems  to  scorch 
the  skin  under  which  it  passes — went  over  his 
face  and  neck  from  the  line  of  his  collar  to  the  line  of 
his  hair. 

"Hullo!"  said  Ferrier,  coming  forward  swiftly  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  "Here  you  are,  Mark !  'Fraid  you 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  279 

had  a  beastly  walk  up  from  the  station.  We  couldn't 
send  to  meet  you  because  we  had  no  notion  of  the  train." 

"I  expect  it  was  a  mistake  for  me  to  come  at  all," 
said  Mark  simply.  "I  have  to  apologize,  Ferrier.  Some- 
how it  never  struck  me." 

"Rot,"  said  Ferrier,  flushing,  and,  "Oh,  rot!"  said 
Earle,  getting  unexpectedly  off  his  sofa.  "Come  and 
have  a  whisky  and  soda,  Sturt — excuse  me,  Charles — 
you've  had  a  rough  day." 

Lawrence  had  not  budged  hitherto,  but  when  the  other 
men  gathered  round  Mark  he  too  came  forward,  part- 
ing his  way  between  them,  and  dropped  his  hand  on 
Mark's  shoulder.  "Get  it  over,"  he  said  in  the  deepened 
tones  that  were  his  only  betrayal  of  strong  feeling. 
"Come !  the  cat's  out  of  the  bag — we  know  the  text,  you 
may  as  well  let  us  hear  the  commentary.  You  never  sent 
that  letter,  Mark.  Who  did?" 

"The  letter  to  the  Journal?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Own  up :  don't  be  a  fool !" — It  was  Law- 
rence's eternal  cry,  "Don't  be  a  silly  ass !" — "Oh,  Mark, 
don't  shirk  your  fences !  It  isn't  good  enough ;  it  simply 
is  not  good  enough.  Defend  yourself :  you  owe  more 

to  the  family  than  to Keep  your  own  name  out  of 

the  mud  and  let  the  rest  go  to  the  devil." 

Mark  held  his  peace  for  a  couple  of  breaths.  He 
knew  what  Lawrence  wanted — no  details,  not  even 
Jenny's  name.  Every  man  in  that  room  could  have  filled 
up  some  sort  of  detail  for  himself.  He  was  not  even  re- 
quired to  say  "A  woman  betrayed  me" ;  he  had  only  to 
say  "I  was  betrayed."  Lawrence  himself  would  have 
entered  either  plea  without  scruple ;  and  indeed  so  would 
Mark,  so  far  as  the  traitress  was  concerned.  It  was 
not  pity  for  Jenny — for  that  matter,  what  would  Jenny 
care? — nor  chivalry,  nor  any  lingering  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  the  life  once  mixed  with  his  own  that  held  Mark 


280  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

back  from  speech,  but  sheer  stubborn  pride.  He  could 
stand  any  obloquy — and  it  was  hourly  becoming  clearer 
to  him  that  he  would  have  a  good  deal  to  stand — sooner 
than  confess  how  Jenny  had  fooled  him. 

"I  have  nothing  to  explain,"  he  said  quietly.  "Wynne 
holds  my  authorization." 

"To  print  Mallinson's  letter?  Wynne  holds  a  permit 
from  you?" 

"He  does,  indeed." 

"Were  you  drunk?" 

"We'll  defer  this  discussion  for  the  present,  Law- 
rence." 

"Defer  it  as  long  as  you  like,"  said  Lawrence. 

He  turned  his  back  on  Mark,  took  out  his  cigar  case, 
and  lit  a  cigar.  Mark  watched  him  in  silence,  a  silence 
which  none  of  the  other  men  attempted  to  break.  These 
men  knew  Mark — he  was  of  their  blood  and  class;  they 
had  knocked  about  with  him  for  years  in  the  loose  in- 
timacy of  covert,  moor,  and  camp,  and  they  represented, 
not  the  unbiased  cynicism  of  London,  but  the  shrewd 
faith  that  is  begotten  by  danger  out  of  hardship — the 
careless  and  inarticulate  freemasonry  that  will  damn  one 
man  by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  stand  by  another 
to  the  death.  A  word,  and  Mark  could  have  had  them 
on  his  side  through  thick  and  thin;  but,  as  a  point  of 
personal  preference,  he  would  sooner  have  died  where 
he  stood  than  speak  that  word. 

He  turned  again  to  Ferrier.  "Really  I'm  very  sorry: 
I  wouldn't  have  inflicted  our  family  squabbles  on  you  if 
I'd  foreseen  them,  but,  as  you  know,  it  has  all  happened 
so  quickly  that  I've  hardly  got  my  bearings  yet.  I'll 
say  good-by,  Ferrier;  I  shan't  see  you  again  for  some 
months  to  come." 

"Going  off?"  said  Ferrier.  "Dare  say  you're  wise. 
Explanations  are  futile  things.  Better  wait  for  the  row 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  281 

to  blow  over."  He  hesitated,  then  went  on  with  a  visible 
effort.  "All  the  same,  if  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so, 
none  of  us  who  know  you  will  accept  the  crude  state- 
ment of  the  case  which  is  apparently  all  you're  going  to 
give  us.  Publicly,  I  suppose  we  shall  be  bound  to  take 
the  facts  at  their  face  value;  but,  if  it's  any  consolation 
to  you,  we  all  know  there's  something  behind." 

"Amen!"  said  his  brother-in-law.  "Although  I'm  not 
your  brother  and  I  haven't  known  you  as  long  as  Ferrier 
has,  I  should  like,  if  I  may,  to  endorse  what  Ferrier 
says." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mark  awkwardly. 

He  shook  hands  with  Earle,  included  Lawrence  among 
the  other  men  in  a  slight  bow,  and  came  out  into  the 
hall,  followed  by  Ferrier.  "I  hear  Dodo  is  out  with  Miss 
Archdale,"  said  Mark,  dropping  into  a  more  ordinary 
manner  as  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  Ferrier.  "Have 
you  any  idea  how  soon  they'll  be  in?" 

"In  half  no  time,  I  should  say.  Listen!  aren't  those 
wheels  in  the  avenue?" 

As  he  went  to  the  door,  Dodo's  high  dogcart  drew  up 
before  it.  Mark  waited  in  the  darkened  hall,  where  no 
candles  had  yet  been  lit  because  of  Dodo's  liking  for 
long  twilights  and  firelights.  He  heard  his  own  name 
in  a  brief  exchange  of  speech  between  husband  and  wife. 
Then  the  two  women  came  in  together,  Ferrier  follow- 
ing, and  Mark  went  slowly  forward.  He  remembered 
afterwards  the  appeal  of  Dodo's  upturned  face,  white 
and  scared;  but  after  the  first  preoccupied  greeting  it 
was  not  to  Dodo  that  he  addressed  himself.  He  forgot 
Dodo,  forgot  Ferrier,  forgot  everything  in  the  isolation 
of  his  rising  fury. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Archdale?  So  sorry  to  bother 
you  when  you  haven't  had  any  tea,  but  my  time  is  short. 
May  I  see  you  for  ten  minutes  ?" 


282  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Maisie  strolled  over  to  the  great  hearth,  slowly  pulling 
off  her  gloves.  She  glanced  up  at  him  with  her  clear 
cold  eyes,  steady  as  a  fencer's  blade. 

"Of  course  you  may,  Mr.  Sturt.  Don't  go,  Dodo:  Mr. 
Sturt  doesn't  want  to  see  me  privately." 

"Yes,  I  do." 

She  smiled  and  slightly  shook  her  head. 

"You'll  remember  that  I  have  a  right  to  insist." 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  can't  recognize  any  right  of  yours. 
I'm  very  sorry  about — about  everything;  it's  all  most 
unfortunate,  and  I  wouldn't  willingly  do  anything  to 
make  it  harder  for  you.  But  I  won't  see  you  privately." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

"Do  you  think  that  likely?" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be.  I  am  a  tolerant  fellow, 
Maisie,  and  I  have  given  you  a  long  rope,  but  you  came 
to  the  end  of  my  patience  two  nights  ago,  here  on  that 
staircase.  God  knows  what  you  meant  by  it,  I  don't.  I 
swore  to  myself  that  evening  that  I  would  have  an  ex- 
planation out  of  you,  or,  failing  that,  cut  my  own  way 
out  of  the  tangle  once  for  all.  Are  you  going  to  refuse 
me  an  explanation?" 

"Yes,  I  refuse." 

"As  you  please."  A  door  opened  behind  him,;  the 
men  were  coming  out  of  the  gun-room.  Mark  did  not 
even  turn  his  head  to  see  who  they  were.  He  was  desper- 
ate— strung  up  to  the  point  at  which  a  man  does  not 
care  who  hears  what  he  says;  but  if  he  had  been  as  cool 
as  he  seemed  he  would  still  have  held  on  his  way.  "But 
in  that  case,  since  I'm  not  going  till  I've  said  what  I  came 
to  say,  you  force  me  to  speak  before  others." 

She  tried  to  escape  towards  the  stairs.  Mark  stopped 
her.  But  he  felt  Ferrier's  hand  on  his  arm.  "Mark, 
old  fellow,  you  can't " 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  Mark:  "she  is  my  wife." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  283 

He  addressed  himself  again  to  Maisie.  "Before  you 
married  me  you  gave  me  leave  to  make  the  marriage  pub- 
lic if  necessary.  In  my  judgment,  it  has  become  neces- 
sary, because  I'm  going  away  to-night,  and  I  refuse  to 
leave  you  in  your  present  absurd  and  anomalous  position. 
It  is  not  fitting  that  my  wife  should  pass  for  an  unmar- 
ried woman.  To-night  I  shall  send  the  dated  announce- 
ment to  the  papers." 

"Sorry,"  Maisie  murmured  with  the  old  good-humored 
irony,  glancing  past  Mark  to  Dodo  Ferrier.  "It  is  quite 
true.  I  married  him  last  July." 

"And  if  I  were  to  die,"  Mark  went  on,  "the  truth 
would  have  to  come  out,  because,  though  this  fact  does 
not  seem  ever  to  have  struck  you,  men  in  my  position 
don't  get  married  without  making  settlements  on  their 
wives.  So  that  I  was  obliged  to  take  my  lawyers  into 
my  confidence,  last  July.  You  wanted  the  marriage  kept 
secret,  for  reasons  which  I  didn't  dispute  then,  and  don't 
dispute  now."  Carefully  and  plainly,  Mark  scored  his 
points  for  the  benefit  of  the  jury.  "You  have  from  start 
to  finish  acted,  from  a  woman's  point  of  view,  in  an  open 
and  honorable  way;  I  don't  grumble  at  anything,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  your  having  forced  me  into  this  disagree- 
ably public  explanation.  But  your  point  of  view  is  not 
mine.  I  ought  to  have  protected  you  from  your  own 
ignorance." 

"Thank  you.  All  this  happened  six  months  ago.  Why 
have  you  suddenly  wakened  up  to  your  duty?" 

"I  can't  imagine  why  I  didn't  wake  up  to  it  long  ago. 
At  all  events  I'm  going  to  do  it  now.  I  dare  say  you 
think  that  after  what  has  lately  happened  I  ought  to  take 
myself  out  of  your  life  with  as  little  fuss  as  possible.  I 
wish  I  could  think  so  too:  believe  me,  I  should  prefer  it. 
But  marriage  is  a  bond  that  can't  be  lightly  broken.  It 
is  a  poor  bargain  for  you,  I  know :  you're  richer  than  I 


284  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

am,  and  after  selling  my  party  I  can't  even  offer  you  a 
decent  name."  He  curbed  himself ;  he  was  half  mad 
with  rage  and  pain,  but  he  was  not  going  to  stoop  to 
irony.  "For  all  that,  you  are  my  wife.  I  came  here  to- 
night to  ask  you  to  leave  Shotton  with  me." 

"Here  and  now?  Straight  out  with  you  into  the 
snow  ?" 

"Here  and  now,"  said  Mark,  holding  out  his  hands. 
When  Maisie  laid  her  own  in  them  he  believed  that  he 
had  conquered.  He  drew  her  towards  him,  looking 
down  into  her  eyes  with  the  strange  gay  smile  of  the  man 
who  has  snatched  victory  out  of  defeat.  "I'll  give  you 
ten  minutes  to  get  on  your  snowboots,  Maisie." 

"Ah!     I  shouldn't  mind  the  snow." 

"Well,  will  you  come?" 

"No."  She  added,  so  low  that  Mark  himself  barely 
heard,  "Take  Mrs.  Essenden." 

She  made  him  gasp  for  breath,  but  he  was  too  well 
drilled  to  betray  by  any  definite  sign  how  cruelly  she  had 
hit  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  cried. 

"But  for  that  I  would  have  come,  Mark." 

"Well,  I  am  done,"  said  Mark  with  clenched  hands. 
"If,  knowing  what  you  know,  you  think  you  have  the 
right — !"  He  broke  off,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"That  finishes  everything.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say. 
But  you'll  not  continue  to  pass  under  your  maiden  name. 
You'll  acknowledge  me  as  your  husband.  You'll  sign 
yourself  Maisie  Sturt  in  future." 

"Certainly,  if  you  like." 

"Good-by." 

"Good-by,  Mark." 

At  the  door  Mark  turned,  drawing  himself  up  for  a 
last  glance.  The  hall  was  still  pervaded  by  the  silence 
of  sheer  astonishment.  Dodo  leaned  against  Charles  Fer- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  285 

rier's  arm,  holding  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  Maisie 
stood  by  the  fire,  smoothing  out  her  gloves,  and  looking 
down  with  stern  thoughtful  glance  into  the  gold  and  ruby 
of  the  flames.  In  the  background  the  white  sharp  face 
of  Lawrence  Sturt  jeered  at  him  out  of  the  shadows. 
The  same  ironic  commentary  that  had  mocked  him  when 
he  looked  up  out  of  the  pains  of  death  to  find  his  brother 
kneeling  over  him  in  that  fly-haunted  pit  at  St.  filoi. 
"O  passi  graviora,"  he  could  hear  Lawrence  saying,  "for- 
san  et  haec  olim.  .  .  ." 

But  this  was  worse  than  that. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HpHREE  hours  later  Mark  let  himself  into  his  flat, 
JL  where  he  found  Henham  waiting. 

"Any  more  people  called,  Henham?" 

"No,  sir.  Well,  no  one  to  speak  of.  One  or  two  gen- 
tlemen connected  with  the  Press,  that  was  all.  I  had  a 
job  to  get  rid  of  them." 

"Oh,  you're  an  invaluable  fellow.  Well,  now  get  me 
something  to  eat,  and  then  I  shall  want  you  to  pack  for 
me.  I'm  leaving  town  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  want  you 
to  stay  on  here  for  a  bit  and  look  after  the  place." 

"Yessir." 

"I  shall  probably  be  away  a  good  long  time.  I'll  ar- 
range for  you  to  draw  your  money  as  usual.  I  shall  want 
my  guns  and  fishing  tackle." 

"Yessir." 

"If  any  one  should  turn  up  to-night,  say  I'm  not  at 
home." 

"If  Captain  Sturt  should  come,  sir?" 

"I  won't  see  him." 

"Or  Father  de  Trafford?" 

"Nor  him  either." 

"Or  if — if  a  lady  was  to  call,  sir?" 

"Good  God!"  said  Mark,  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
laughter,  "if  a  lady  calls,  put  the  chain  up." 

Mark  went  into  his  bedroom.  He  was  not  one  to  col- 
lect litter,  but  no  man  can  live  seven  years  in  a  spot  with- 
out gathering  a  few  personal  trifles  about  him;  letters, 
memoranda,  things  of  no  value  but  for  their  associations. 
Mark  had  not  much,  but  he  came  across  a  dozen  photo- 

286 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  287 

graphs  of  Lawrence  and  some  of  his  letters,  and  one  note 
from  Maisie  which  he  had  discovered  under  a  pebble  on 
the  window-sill  at  Ushant  one  morning  when  he  returned 
rather  late  from  a  stroll  to  find  the  cottage  empty.  "Dear 
Mark,  Don't  turn  your  steps  towards  the  cove,  I've  gone 
down  there  to  bathe.  Put  some  coal  on  if  the  fire  looks 
low,  I've  stacked  on  all  I  cd.  but  it's  not  a  big  enough 
grate.  M."  Lawrence  and  Maisie's  letters  went  to- 
gether into  the  flames,  and  Mark  stamped  them  down 
with  the  heel  of  his  boot.  He  had  not  much  sentiment 
left  in  him,  but  he  had  enough  to  be  glad  when  they 
were  burned. 

He  returned  to  the  living-room,  where  Henham  was 
waiting  to  serve  dinner.  Wonderful  man,  Henham !  He 
could  not  have  expected  Mark  home  that  night,  and  yet 
in  forty  minutes  he  had  got  ready  an  admirable  meal, 
with  claret  of  the  right  temperature  and  Mark's  favorite 
hors  d'ccuvre.  Between  two  courses,  when  Henham  had 
left  the  room,  a  point  of  recollection  pricked  Mark's 
mind,  and  he  rose  at  once  and  went  to  a  cabinet  by  the 
window.  He  had  just  remembered  having  left  in  it  a  new 
automatic  pistol  which  Bannatyne  had  recently  sent  home 
to  him,  and  which  he  and  Henham  had  been  examining 
together.  They  had  been  testing  the  mechanism,  which 
was  of  a  novel  design,  and  Mark  knew  that  they  had 
left  the  weapon  loaded;  a  careless  act,  witness  many  a 
coroner's  inquest.  Henham  of  course  knew  his  way 
about,  but  a  loaded  Browning  is  not  a  safe  thing  to  keep 
loose  in  empty  rooms.  But,  when  Mark  went  to  draw 
the  charge,  he  stood  weighing  the  toy  in  his  hand  with  a 
very  odd  expression.  It  was  already  drawn.  At  that 
moment  Henham  came  in  with  coffee  and  a  benedictine. 
.  .  .  Mark  looked  at  him :  not  an  eyelash  flickered, 
though  he  certainly  saw  his  master  standing  by  the  open 
cabinet  with  the  unloaded  pistol  in  his  hand. 


288  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"There  are  a  lot  of  other  weapons  on  the  wall,  Hen- 
ham,"  said  Mark. 

"Yessir,"  Henham  agreed,  sweeping  a  crumb  from 
the  table.  "But  they  don't  come  so  'andy  like." 

Mark  returned  to  the  fire,  his  coffee,  and  a  pipe.  Hen- 
ham  retired  in  his  own  noiseless  fashion,  and  Mark  let 
his  eyes  rove  over  the  stand  of  weapons  that  filled  the 
length  of  the  wall.  There  was  every  variety  of  cutting 
and  stabbing  implement,  from  the  paralyzing  poison-dart 
of  the  Tsavo  jungle  to  the  eight-foot  spear  of  the  Dyak, 
but  there  were  no  guns.  Decidedly  Henham  showed 
judgment;  the  crook  of  a  finger  round  a  hair-trigger  is 
a  swifter  and  a  neater  trick  than  disemboweling  oneself, 
say,  with  a  Japanese  sword.  Mark's  mind  ought  to 
have  been  fixed  upon  the  wreck  of  his  political  and  matri- 
monial career,  but  instead  of  that  he  found  himself 
ruminating  over  Henham,  and  wondering  whether  there 
had  ever  been  a  Mrs.  Henham  or  a  little  Henham  junior. 
He  did  not  know  one  single  fact  about  Henham's  private 
life — not  even  his  Christian  name. 

The  door  reopened,  and  Henham  himself  appeared — 
but  such  a  harassed  and  agitated  Henham  as  Mark  had 
never  seen  before.  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  disturbing 
you,  sir,"  he  panted  out  as  respectfully  as  his  breathless 
state  allowed,  "but  there — there  is  a  lady  to  see  you,  sir, 
and  I — I  couldn't  stop  her  coming  in ' 

Mark  was  on  his  feet  with  a  bound :  he  had  a  flying 
memory  of  Lawrence's  cautionary  note,  and  the  thought 
struck  him  that  it  might  be  needed.  "Where  is  she?" 

"Sir,  it's — it  isn't  Mrs.  Essenden " 

It  was  not  Jenny  Essenden :  it  was  Maisie  Sturt. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  towering  over  Henham's 
shoulder :  no  wonder  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep  her 
out!  She  was  in  her  sable  suit  again,  cap  and  coat  and 
fur-bordered  gauntlets :  but  where  had  she  been  and 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  289 

what  had  she  been  doing  ?  Coat  and  cap  and  skirt,  every 
garment  down  to  her  gaiters  and  boots  was  powdered 
thick  with  snow;  her  jacket  was  unfastened  as  usual  over 
her  bare  throat,  and  the  snow  had  eddied  in  against  her 
skin ;  a  wreath  of  snow  lay  in  the  folds  of  her  veil.  Shut- 
ting the  door  on  Henham's  discomfiture,  she  came  to  the 
fire  and  began  to  strip  off  her  out-of-door  clothes,  shak- 
ing into  the  hearth  their  white  drifts,  which  the  warmth 
of  Mark's  room  was  fast  thawing  into  rivulets  that 
dripped  round  her  in  a  pool  on  the  floor. 

"Maisie!"  said  Mark,  stupefied.     "Is  it  you?    How — 
how  did  you  get  here?'* 
"I  motored." 

"Motored  up  from  Shotton?  In  an  open  car?  You 
don't  mean  you  drove  yourself  ?" 

"Yes ;  the  last  train  had  gone  and  it  was  a  very  bad 
night,  and  I  couldn't  drag  a  man  out.  I  took  my  own 
little  run-about  that  was  stabled  at  the  inn.  What  does 
it  signify?  I  had  powerful  head-lamps." 

"Your  dress  is  saturated.  You'll  get  rheumatic  fever 
if  you  sit  in  those  clothes." 

He  knelt  to  unfasten  her  boots:  they  were  wet — the 
little  run-about  was  not  designed  to  face  the  storms  of 
a  winter  night,  and  apparently  the  snow  had  drifted  in 
round  her  legs  all  the  way.  Maisie  let  him  take  them 
off,  while  she  herself  removed  the  drenched  cap  and 
veil.  Her  hair  was  still  dressed  for  the  evening,  a  pearl 
comb  set  high  among  its  shining  puffs  and  coils ;  she  had 
apparently  flung  on  her  furred  suit  over  silk  stockings 
and  a  white  evening  gown.  "I  shall  be  none  the  worse," 
she  said.  "You  know  I  took  no  hurt  when  I  got  wet  at 
Ushant,  and  then  I  ,was  soaked  to  the  skin.  This  is 
nothing  to  that,  because  my  motoring  clothes  are  so 
thick ;  see,  I'll  slip  out  of  them — the  silk  is  not  wet  un- 
derneath." 


290  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

,  "Your  bodice  is  wet."  Sturt  hurried  into  his  bedroom 
and  came  back  with  a  coat  of  his  own.  "Put  this  on 
over  it.  Why  hadn't  you  the  sense  to  fasten  your  col- 
lar?" 

"I  donlt  know.  I  never  thought  about  it.  Let  me  sit 
down  by  the  fire." 

Then  he  saw  that  she  could  hardly  stand.  He  dragged 
up  his  own  chair  for  her  to  sit  in,  and  raked  the  coals 
to  a  blaze.  Maisie  leaned  forward,  stretching  out  her 
hands  to  the  glow,  nestling  her  bare  shoulders  into  Mark's 
old  coat  as  if  she  liked  its  roomy  warmth. 

"No  coffee,  Mark,  thanks — no,  and  a  benedictine  still 
less.  Come  here  and  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say." 

He  leaned  one  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  and  stood 
looking  down  at  her,  the  other  hand  thrust  into  his 
pocket.  His  rather  heavy,  impassive  face  was  keenly 
observant  and  attentive,  but  it  expressed  no  feeling  of 
any  kind — neither  anger,  nor  tenderness,  nor  admiration, 
nor  even  curiosity. 

"You  don't  seem  much  moved,"  said  Maisie,  smiling 
faintly.  "How  do  you  feel — like  having  a  gun  acci- 
dent?" 

"Not  a  bit.  It's  a  smash,  certainly,  but  it  will  blow 
over;  or,  if  it  didn't,  there  are  other  countries  in  the 
world  besides  England.  I  still  have  our  national  resource 
of  killing  things." 

"Do  you  think  you'll  have  to  resign  your  seat?" 

"I  shall  not  have  to  do  so.  I  have  already  done 
so." 

"You  would,  of  course:  I  might  have  known  that. 
But  if  you  were  nominated  again  would  you  stand?" 

"Certainly,  if  Gatton  did  me  that  honor.  But  I  don't 
think  Gatton  will." 

"Lawrence  thinks  they  will.  He  says  you  took  a  wise 
line  in  refusing  to  explain." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  291 

"Oh?"  said  Mark  blankly.  "I  did  not  gather  that 
opinion  from  Lawrence  this  afternoon." 

"He  lost  his  temper.  But  he  said  to-night,  and  Charles 
Ferrier  agreed,  that  in  the  long  run  you'll  score  by  it. 
No  explanation  is  better  than  a  lame  defense.  After  all, 
the  bribe  theory  doesn't  cover  the  facts.  Where  is 
the  bribe?  You  lose  the  chance  of  office  and  your 
seat." 

"I  see."  Mark's  tone  was  dry;  he  did  not  care  to 
discuss  his  brother.  When  he  remembered  the  scene  in 
the  gun-room,  a  desire  to  hit  Lawrence  ached  in  his  arm 
like  cramp. 

"Of  course  I  know  who  did  it.  She  has  smashed  up 
your  career  out  of  revenge." 

"How  do  you  come  to  know  anything  about  Mrs.  Es- 
senden  ?" 

She  passed  by  that  question.  "And,  after  all,  it's  not 
your  career  that  you  mind  about,  is  it?  It's  the  breach 
of  confidence,  the  failure  in  honor  towards  Mr.  Mallin- 
son.  I  know  how  proud  you  are,  and  how  sensitive  about 
a  thing  like  that." 

"Am  I?" 

"Very :  and  deadly  reserved,  too,  and  rather  shy,  under 
the  drilled  manner.  You've  schooled  yourself  to  go 
through  with  things,  but  you  feel  them  acutely,  and  a 
stab  like  this,  which  touches  your  personal  honor,  is 
what  you  can  least  stand.  Oh !  outsiders  won't  see  all 
that,  but  I'm  not  precisely  an  outsider,  and — no  more  is 
Mrs.  Essenden.  She  knows  you  through  and  through, 
that's  why  she  chose  this  particular  form  of  revenge." 

"Sheer  chance.  She  took  the  first  weapon  that  came 
to  hand." 

"She  could  have  struck  twenty  times  before.  She 
held  her  hand  till  she  could  strike  right  up  under  your 
armor." 


292  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Mark  did  not  answer,  but  his  expression  remained  no 
less  coldly  attentive  and  polite. 

"And  you're  going  away — when?  To-morrow?"  He 
nodded.  "Where  shall  you  go — Central  Africa?" 

"Central  Africa?"  Sturt  laughed.  "Oh,  no— Central 
Africa  is  where  you  go  to  meet  all  your  friends.  I  shall 
drop  -off  the  edge  of  civilization.  I'm  not  keen  on  meet- 
ing my  friends — although,  as  you  say,  the  bribe  theory 
doesn't  cover  the  facts." 

"I  am  very  sorry  abo,ut.it  all,  Mark — very  sorry." 

"So  you  said  to-night." 

"I  behaved  very  badly  to  you." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mark  politely. 

"And  now  you  are  not  going  to  forgive  me,"  said 
Maisie.  She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Mark.  "It  isn't  worth  it.  You 
had  much  better  have  a  benedictine,  it  will  pull  you  to- 
gether a  bit." 

"I  am  not  crying:  and  you  needn't  be  afraid — I  shan't 
make  you  any  scene.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  one  of  the 
women  who  make  scenes.  I  rather  wish  I  were,  you 
would  probably  understand  me  better  if  I  did.  Are  you 
angry  with  me  for  coming  here  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  You  seem  to  forget  that  you're  my 
wife.  You  have  every  right  to  come  here,  and  to  say 
anything  you  like  to  me.  What  is  it  you  want  to  say? 
You'll  feel  happier  when  you've  gone  through  with  it, 
and,  for  that  matter,  so  shall  I.  It's  getting  late,  isn't 
it?  You  must  be  tired." 

"You  hate  me  for  understanding,  you  hate  my  coming 
here,"  said  Maisie,  turning  her  head  away.  "But  it  is 
not  my  fault  that  I'm  here.  I  came  under  orders." 

"Whose— Mrs.  Ferrier's  ?" 

"Would  she  meddle?  No:  some  one  who  knows  you 
better  than  Dodo  or  I  do.  Lawrence  made  me  come :  so, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  293 

if  you're  angry — and  I  know  you  are,  though  you  say 
you  aren't — be  angry  with  him." 
"Lawrence!" 

"We  had  a  short  explanation  after  you  left.  He  way- 
laid me  on  the  landing,  and  we  had  it  out  together  in 
my  room.  I  told  him  how  I  married  you,  and  he  told  me 
about  Mrs.  Essenden's  peculiar  catholicity  of  taste.  No, 
it  wasn't  a  conventional  dialogue :  but  Lawrence  is  not 
prudishly  conventional,  is  he?  He  was  angry,  if  you 
like.  He  said  his  usual  motto  was  never  to  interfere  with 
another  man's  horse,  or  his  gun,  or  his  wife;  but  that 
you  and  I  were  such  fools  that  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  for  some  kind  friend  to  knock  our  heads  together." 

"I  recognize  Lawrence  in  the  turn  of  that  phrase.  He 
can  always  manage  other  people's  business  better  than 
his  own." 

"He  advised — I  may  say  he  ordered — me  to  come  up 
by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning  and  confess  to 
you;  but  I  couldn't  face  a  night's  inaction." 

"I  owe  him  one  for  that,"  said  Mark,  smiling  and 
giving  a  little  twist  to  his  mustache. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stand  this,"  said  Maisie  under  her  breath. 
"I  can't,  Mark,  I  can't." 

"If  it  will  make  things  easier  for  you,  I  believe  I  know 
what  you're  trying  to  say." 

"What,  then?" 

"That,  feeling  yourself  partly  responsible  for  the  ruin 
of  my  career,  you  are  prepared  to  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones and  accompany  me  into  exile.  Isn't  that  the  way 
of  it?" 

"More  or  less." 

"Then,  with  all  possible  gratitude  both  to  Lawrence 
and  to  yourself,  I  beg  to  state  that  I  have  changed  my 
mind  and  I  decline  the  honor." 

The  choice  of  words,  the  smile,  the  undisguised  and 


294  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

penetrating  sneer  brought  Maisie  to  her  feet.  "Is  that 
meant  for  an  insult?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

"Well,  you  are  pretty  badly  hit,  then,"  said  Maisie. 

She  faced  him  with  her  direct  eyes  and  deer-like  car- 
riage of  the  head,  as  she  had  faced  him  long  ago  in  the 
fields  at  Shotton.  "And  that  is  my  fault ;  it  was  through 
me  you  fell  into  Mrs.  Essenden's  toils;  but  for  me  you 
would  have  gone  on  living  the  old,  hardy  life.  Now  you 
shall  have  the  truth.  You  are  a  proud  man,  aren't  you? 
I'm  proud  too.  You  haven't  been  very  generous  to  me 
this  evening.  I  don't  wonder;  you've  had  a  great  deal 
to  chafe  you  to-day,  and  you're  tired  and  out  of  humor, 
and  the  last  thing  you  want  is  a  scene  of  sentiment.  Be- 
lieve me,  if  it  is  disagreeable  to  you,  it  is — no  less  so  to 
me.  I  must  say  what  I  came  to  say,  not  only  because  I 
promised  Lawrence,  but  because  it  has  to  be  said.  I've 
done  so  very  wrong — I've  wronged  you  so  deeply — that 
there's  nothing  left  for  me  now  but  to  put  myself  into 
your  hands.  I  must — I  must  stand  up  to  my  punish- 
ment." She  was  on  her  feet,  white  as  death,  facing  him 
in  her  silk  and  pearls  and  crushed  tulle  as  he  could 
have  imagined  her  facing  enemy  rifles.  "Will  you — will 
you  promise  to  hear  me  out — not  to  interrupt  the  tale? 
I  can't — I  can't  finish  if  you  do." 

"I  promise." 

"Thank  you.  Haven't  you  often  wanted  to  ask  me 
why  I  married  you?" 

"Occasionally." 

"Ask  now." 

"Why  did  you  marry  me?" 

"Because  I  loved  you." 

"Because  you — ?" 

"Because  I  loved  you.  Oh !  don't — don't  laugh,  Mark, 
will  you?"  She  cowered  down,  but  only  for  a  moment. 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  295 

"There  never  was  any  other  reason  at  all.  I  loved  you, 
not  better  than  my  honor,  as  Mrs.  Essenden  said,  but  far 
better  than  my  pride.  Oh!  no,  you  promised!"  Sturt, 
deeply  flushed,  would  have  stopped  her.  "Have  patience 
with  me  this  once,  you  ought  to  know  how  you  stand." 
She  waited  for  a  moment,  struggling  for  quiet  breath, 
while  Mark  fell  back  into  impassivity ;  the  firelight  played 
on  her  slight  foot  in  its  clocked  stocking,  on  her  gleam- 
ing silks,  on  the  white  shoulders  bare  under  Mark's  serge 
coat.  Outside,  over  the  dark  roofs  of  London,  a  north 
wind  rushed  along  laden  with  snow,  thundering  in  Mark's 
chimney  and  raving  round  his  curtained  windows. 
Had  she  headed  her  car,  then,  sixty  miles  into  that 
blinding  gale  to  face  this  harder  firelit  scene  at  the  end 
of  it? 

"I  cared  from  the  first  day  I  saw  you,  which  you 
don't  remember,  but  I  do;  Lawrence  was  telling  me 
Andean  tales  under  the  beech  trees,  and  you  came  up 
to  us  over  the  grass,  and  Lawrence  said  'My  brother.' 
And  I  said  to  myself,  'Heavens !  am  I  going  to  care  for 
that  man?'  It  was  a — a  fatality,  Mark.  These  things 
happen,  don't  they  ?  It  wasn't  a  girl's  fancy.  One  could 
imagine  a  young  girl  falling  in  love  with  Lawrence,  say, 
because  of  his  extraordinary  looks,  or  because  of  his 
reputation.  But  you're  not  Lawrence,  and  I'm  not  a 
young  girl.  It  was  a — a  torment.  One  can't  fight  against 
one's  stars.  And  you? — you  were  the  only  man  in  the 
house  that  never  looked  at  me,  though  heaven  knows  I 
took  pains  enough  to  make  you.  You  thought  I  was 
amusing  myself,  didn't  you?  You  were  out  in  that  guess, 
my  friend :  but  you  drove  me  mad  and  I  didn't  always 
know  what  I  was  doing." 

Sturt  moved  restlessly  and  kicked  the  brands  together; 
she  was  trying  him  high. 

"It  was  all  done  in  that  one  evening,  the  evening  Law- 


296  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

rence  told  me  you  were  going  to  America.  When  I  heard 
that,  I  think  I  went  mad.  Anything  may  happen  in  six 
months.  You  might  have  got  killed — or  you  might  have 
got  married.  Oh!  I  know  now  it  was  unpardonable. 
Heavens !  when  I  look  back  to  five  months  ago  it  seems 
to  me  I  was  nothing  but  a  child.  I  knew  things  with 
my  mind,  with  my  intelligence,  but  I  didn't  see  where 
they  led.  Inexperienced  women  don't.  I  never  had  the 
dimmest  inkling  of  what  Ushant  would  mean  for  you.  I 
never  thought  I  was  doing  you  any  wrong.  I  knew  Law- 
rence and  Dodo  wanted  you  to  marry  me.  I  was  blind 
with  vanity,  I  suppose,  for  I  never  doubted — no,  I  don't 
think  I  once  doubted  that  I  could  make  you  care  for  me 
if  I  could  once  have  you  to  myself.  Like  a  child,  I 
wouldn't  tell  you  any  lies,  but  I  told  you  half-truths.  I 
offered  you  a  week  at  Ushant,  but  it  was  in  my  mind  that 
before  the  week  was  up  I'd  make  you  love  me  so  that 
you  would  never  let  me  go.  Do  you  remember  what  I 
told  you  at  Ushant?" 

"About  your  brother?" 

"Ah !  you  do  remember."  The  shadow  of  a  smile  flitted 
through  her  eyes.  "I'm  glad — I  don't  want  you  to  hate 
me.  Then  you'll  remember  I  had  not  had  much  happi- 
ness in  my  life.  I  was  very  lonely;  no,  worse  than  lonely 
— solitary.  I  love  my  friends,  but  I  don't  find  it  easy  to 
talk  to  them.  I  did  long  for  some  one  to  hold  on  to,  some 
one  I  could  touch  when  I  couldn't  talk  to  him  .  .  .  and 
I  used  to  think  .  .  .  just  to  touch  you,  Mark,  not  say- 
ing anything.  .  .  .  Ushant  was  sin.  I  know  that  now. 
But  I  didn't  know  it  then.  I  never  knew  till  that  first 
night  in  the  cottage.  I  never  knew  what  shame  meant, 
till  then.  You  put  me  to  shame  then,  as  you're  doing 
now.  But  I'm  yours,  to  take  or  leave." 

"Here !"  said  Mark,  holding  out  his  arms.  She  came 
to  him.  "Leave  you? — never." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  297 

"Lawrence  was  right,  then?  He  said  you  cared  for 
jne." 

"Lawrence  was  exceedingly  right." 

"And  you  don't  despise  a  woman  that  has — ?" 

"Not  a  bit.     I'm  grateful  for  the  honor  done  me." 

"No  satire,  Mark:  I  can't  stand  it.  Remember  I'm 
dying  of  shame  still." 

"Die,  then,"  said  Mark  with  levity.  "What  do  you 
want  ? — to  be  adored  ?  So  you  shall  be,  but  give  me  five 
minutes  to  get  myself  in  hand  again.  I  was  mad  with 
rage  when  you  came  into  the  room  this  evening.  I've 
been  mad  with  rage  ever  since  that  night  on  the  stairs. 
I  lay  up  to  score  off  you." 

"You  did  it,"  Maisie  murmured. 

"And  now  you  want  consolation — affection — what's  the 
trick?  What  do  you  think  a  man's  made  of?  Feel  my 
heart.  Now  say  you're  afraid  of  me?" 

"I'm  not." 

"Aren't  you?  You  look  as  if  you  were.  Sit  down, 
I  can't  get  at  you  properly.  You  can  hardly  stand,  you 
know,  and  I  seem  to  be  half  drunk  myself." 

He  dropped  on  one  knee  beside  her,  taking  her  into 
his  arms,  and  the  chalice  of  love,  so  long  desired,  was 
at  her  lips.  Questions  framed  themselves  in  Maisie's 
mind,  and  died  there.  "Do  you  love  me  more  than  you 
loved  Jenny?  How  long  have  you  loved  me?  Why  did 
you  say  no  at  Ushant?  Wasn't  that  because  you  cared 
a  little  even  then,  too  much  as  well  as  not  enough  ?"  To 
some  she  already  knew  the  answer;  others  must  go  for- 
ever unanswered,  for  Mark  probably  could  not  have 
answered  them,  and  certainly  would  not  if  he  could. 
Many  a  woman's  love  is  woven  in  and  out  of  such  silence 
and  renunciation,  because  some  men  will  be  bound  by 
no  chain  but  of  their  own  forging,  and  they  will  not 
submit  to  questions;  bitter-sweet,  this  certitude  came  to 


298  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

Maisie  as  she  drew  down  Mark's  head  against  her  heart, 
and  the  tenderness  of  motherhood  was  in  her  eyes,  for 
in  the  depths  of  life,  below  passion,  a  woman  bears  her 
lover  as  she  bears  his  child,  in  pain  and  patience  as  well 
as  in  joy. 

Yes,  he  was  hers :  but  he  came  to  her  in  his  unimpaired 
strength  and  untouched  pride,  with  thirteen  years  of 
manhood  behind  him — years  of  war  and  trade  and  sport 
and  politics,  years  in  which  he  had  subdued  dangers  and 
difficulties,  and  tasted  strange  experiences,  and  sinned 
sins  that  to  her  were  a  name  only;  years  in  which  he 
had  stood  alone,  never  bending  his  will  against  his  will, 
never  asking  or  giving  a  confidence.  Yes,  he  was  hers ; 
but  for  how  long  ?  Forever  ?  He  had  gone  from  Ushant 
to  Normandy ;  were  there  to  be  other  Normandys  in  his 
life? 

Sharp  as  the  point  of  a  sword  Jenny  Essenden's  warn- 
ing for  the  thousandth  time  pierced  her,  sharp  as  a  bodily 
pain  at  her  heart;  at  Shotton  and  at  Ushant  she  had 
cheated  him  out  of  one  prerogative  of  his  manhood — 
the  chase,  the  conquest ;  and — oh,  fool ! — in  her  reckless- 
ness she  had  thrown  away  the  armor  that  innocent  women 
wear  as  a  guard  against  a  man's  light  thoughts  and  easy 
infidelities,  not  only  her  own  dignity  and  reticence,  but 
the  dignity  of  Mark  Sturt's  wife,  the  reticence  traditional 
among  men  and  women  who  are  trained  to  endure  and 
forego.  Passion  obliterates  all  things,  but  when  passion 
fades  memory  returns,  and,  though  she  knew  that  Mark's 
lips  would  always  be  sealed,  was  it  so  certain  that  she 
would  not  live  to  read  a  memory  in  his  silence?  Maisie 
was  not  given  to  weeping,  but  the  poignant  tears  of  re- 
gret hung  on  her  eyelids  now:  oh,  that  regret  for  what 
we  would  undo  if  we  could  with  our  life-blood,  but  it 
can  never  be  undone ! 

Yet,  he  was  hers;  and  as  the  swift  moments  ebbed, 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  299 

and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  quiet  room  but  Sturt's  deep, 
hurried  breathing  and  the  rustle  of  her  own  dress  when 
he  shifted  his  clasp,  there  came  to  Maisie  a  broader  vision 
of  human  life,  which  builds  a  nest  in  heaven  out  of  error 
and  failure  and  even  sin.  What  did  she  want,  after  all, 
of  armor  against  Mark?  She  was  his  own,  to  love  or 
hate,  to  hold  or  leave,  to  honor  or  scorn.  For  othei4 
women,  other  ways  of  love :  this  way  for  her. 

The  clock  was  striking  midnight,  and  the  fire  had 
burned  down  to  red  embers. 

"Oh,  Mark,  it's  late!"  said  Maisie.  She  drew  herself 
slowly  out  of  his  arms  and  held  him  away  from  her:  an 
unknown  Mark,  half  dazed,  but  with  the  white  radiance 
of  passion  still  visibly  lighted  in  his  face.  "Oh,  Mark, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that!  I'm  not  worth  it." 

"Aren't  you?" 

"Let  us  be  sensible.  I  ought  to  see  about  a  room  at 
an  hotel.  I  wonder  what  your  man  did  with  the  car 
and  my  dressing-case?  I  suppose  I  can  get  in  at  the 
Wharton." 

"Get  in  at  the  Wharton  ?" 

"Why  not?  I  must  sleep  somewhere,  and  my  own 
house  is  shut  up." 

"Oh,  quite !"  said  Mark.  He  began  to  laugh.  "Locked 
doors — what?  There's  no  key  here,  Maisie:  come  and 
see." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Oh,  Mark,  I  can't,  I  can't! 
I — I  don't  feel  a  bit  married.  It's  so  long  ago." 

"So  you  think  you'd  like  to  go  to  an  hotel  ?"  said  Mark 
with  sparkling  eyes.  He  stood  up,  stretching  his  cramped 
limbs ;  he  was  still  in  his  rough  homespun,  and  he  threw 
up  his  arms  and  straightened  back  his  shoulders  with 
the  easy  vigor  of  the  athlete.  "Ouf !  I'm  tired."  He 
did  not  look  it.  "Don't  you  think  you're  rather  young 


300  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

to  go  without  a  nurse?  You  won't  have  any  one  to 
brush  your  hair  for  you  to-morrow  morning,  and  put 
your  bib  on  and  tie  your  sash.  Ha  ha!  when  you  laugh 
and  blush  like  that  you  look  about  fifteen  and  almost 
pretty. — My  darling,  you  shall  do  absolutely  as  you  like ; 
but  be  generous,  Maisie — I'm  not  made  of  putty,  though 
you  seem  to  think  I  am.  And  what's  the  odds,  after 
all,  if  you're  coming  to  Central  Africa  with  me  to-mor- 
row?" Bending  his  head,  he  raised  her  hand  gently  to 
his  lips.  "Dear,  if  you  can  forgive  the  mess  I've  made 
of  things,  not  only  the  hash  I've  made  of  my  political 
career,  but  the  rotten  time  I  gave  you  at  Ushant,  and — 
and  all  that's  happened  since — if  you  can  forgive  all  that, 
are  you  going  to  be  afraid  of  me  now,  Maisie? — Recol- 
lect, you're  giving  up  a  lot.  It'll  blow  over  in  time,  as 
Ferrier  said;  but  for  the  next  year  or  two  it'll  be  a 
toss-up  between  cutting  London  and  being  cut  by  it. 
Some  of  our  side  will  never  forgive  me — never;.  I've 
made  them  look  such  fools.  And  I  shall  never  explain. 
I  split  with  Lawrence  over  that.  They  can  think  what 
they  like  and  say  what  they  like.  Don't  fancy  I'm  doing 
it  to  spare  Jenny  either.  I  could  crush  her,  if  that  were 
all,  with  no  more  compunction  than  killing  a  fly.  It's 
not  for  Jenny's  sake,  it's  for  my  own." 

"And  mine,"  said  Maisie.  "Do  you  imagine  I  want 
it  proclaimed  all  over  London  that  Mrs.  Essenden  picked 
your  pocket?" 

"How  on  earth  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"Aren't  I  clever?  Anyhow,  that  is  what  she  did: 
and  I  quite  agree,  my  dear  boy,  that  you  had  better  hold 
your  tongue  about  it.  You  don't  come  out  of  it  at  all 
well." 

"Not  at  all.  Maisie,  did  Mrs.  Essenden  go  to  see 
you?" 

"Yes,  she  did." 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  301 

"At  Shotton?" 

"Yes,  the  night  Lawrence  arrived.  The  night  I  met 
you  on  the  stairs,  dear." 

"Oh,  damn  the  woman !"  said  Mark  between  his  teeth. 

"Leave  her,"  said  Maisie.  "In  point  of  fact  she  is 
already  getting  her  deserts,  or  some  of  them:  Lawrence 
had  it  all  out  of  me  this  evening,  and  I  rather  gathered 
from  his  manner  that  he  proposed  to  go  and  see  the  lady 
himself.  I  said  he'd  better  not,  but  Lawrence  in  a  rage 
is  a  little  difficult  to  influence.  I  couldn't  cope  with  him 
at  all,  and  if  I  were  Mrs.  Essenden  I  should  get  under 
the  table.  He  is  fond  of  you,  Mark.  I  told  him  what 
she  had  told  me  of  her  little  trick  of  reading  your  let- 
ters— yes,  dear  boy,  she  read  them  all — and  I  have  an 
impression  that  he  overtook  me  on  the  London  road 
just  south  of  Clapham.  He  started  after  I  did,  but  he 
had  a  bigger  car." 

"En  route  for  Jenny's?" 

"I  should  say  so,  from  his  expression." 

"I'll  call  quits  with  Jenny,  then,"  said  Mark  with  an  un- 
forgiving laugh.  "Oh,  there  you  are,  Henham.  This  is 
Mrs.  Sturt,  your  new  mistress.  She  is  going  to  stay  the 
night,  so  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  to  make  her  com- 
fortable. Will  you  bring  her  bag  up  and  get  her  some- 
thing to  eat?  You  took  the  car  to  the  garage? — that's 
right.  You  had  better  light  a  fire  in  my  room.  You 
won't  mind  roughing  it  for  one  night,  will  you,  Maisie  ? 
It  can't  be  more  uncomfortable  than  we  were  at  Ushant. 
Oh,  and,  Henham,  I  can't  take  Mrs.  Sturt  to  Mr.  Ben- 
net's  quarters.  I  shall  want  you  to  go  round  to  Captain 
Sturt  to-morrow — he's  at  Chelsea  to-night — and  tell  him 
I  want  to  borrow  Longstone  Edge  for  a  bit.  We'll  shut 
the  flat  up  and  you  shall  go  down  with  us  and  help  me 
to  get  things  shipshape." 

"Yessir,"  said  Henham. 


302  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

"Longstone  Edge,  Mark?"  Maisie  repeated,  docile  but 
bewildered.  "But— but— I  thought  you  were  going  to 
Central  Africa?" 

"Did  you?"  Mark  answered  cheerfully.  "So  I  gath- 
ered. I  didn't.  What  a  shame,  isn't  it?  No,  dear,  I'm 
going  to  Gatton  to  do  a  little  work." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  riverside  mission  was  thriving,  and  yet  Father 
de  Trafford  was  not  happy. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  study,  reading  a  book  that  he  had 
read  many  times  before  when  he  felt  depressed.  It  was 
a  night  of  snow  and  storm,  but  the  curtains  were  drawn, 
and  the  room,  though  sparsely  furnished,  was  of  warm 
and  comfortable  aspect,  with  its  Turkey  carpet,  shaded 
lamp,  and  pleasantly  fusty  smell  of  leather  bindings — 
a  little  too  comfortable,  in  Father  de  Trafford's  opinion, 
for  the  tenancy  of  a  Catholic  priest.  He  often  longed 
for  the  severer  life  and  harder  penances  of  the  monastic 
clergy.  But  his  superiors  told  him  he  was  doing  his 
best  work  where  he  was,  and  so  he  stayed  on  at  St.  Casi- 
mir's,  and  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he 
could  not  have  entertained  MM.  Athos  and  d'Artagnan 
in  the  blessed  solitude  of  a  cell. 

It  was  late;  the  deep  tolling  from  Westminster  began 
to  sound  twelve,  and  the  tale  was  taken  up  by  St.  Casi- 
mir's  thin  reiteration.  Father  de  Trafford  came  out  of 
the  cellar  of  the  Lis  d'Or — out  of  the  hams,  the  sausages, 
the  olive  oil,  and  the  "broken  bottles — and  pushed  away 
his  reading  lamp ;  for  a  man  who  was  obliged  to  take 
care  of  his  health  and  who  had  a  mass  to  celebrate  at 
7:15  a.m.,  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Yet  he  did  not  rise; 
he  leaned  his  cheek  on  his  hand  and  sat  on  by  the  fire, 
musing. 

It  was  of  Mark  Sturt  that  he  was  thinking;  Mark 
Sturt,  the  founder  of  the  riverside  mission,  to  whom  the 

303 


304  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

priest  had  not  spoken  since  parting  from  him  on  the 
steps  of  St.  Casimir's  with  that  strange  "Pray  for  me" 
ringing  in  his  ears.  Not  one  day  or  night,  not  many 
single  hours  had  gone  by  him  since  then  without  a  prayer 
for  Sturt's  soul.  Father  de  Trafford  knew  his  London 
well.  Of  the  outside  of  Mark's  life  he  knew  as  much 
as  Horton  did,  or  any  other  male  gossip  who  moved  in 
Jenny's  set ;  and  from  it  he  had  divined,  with  the  strange 
inward  vision  of  the  Catholic  priest,  who  sees  day  by 
day  men  and  women  bared  to  the  dry  light  of  the  con- 
fessional, a  good  deal  of  Mark's  inner  history  as  well. 
Not  that  Mark  had  ever  gone  near  a  confessional  since 
his  connection  with  Jenny !  but  de  Trafford  had  shriven 
him  in  the  old  days,  and  could  make  a  pretty  shrewd 
guess  at  the  effect  Jenny  would  have  on  a  man  of  Mark's 
temper.  De  Trafford  read  Jenny  pretty  clearly — Jenny 
who  had  bathed  him  in  penitential  tears  which  dried  up 
soon  after  he  let  slip  the  word  Normandy — and  he  had 
regretted  that  indiscretion  more  than  many  sins.  Slight 
it  was,  and  natural,  for  Normandy  is  wide,  and  Mark's 
journey  was  indeed  no  secret,  yet  de  Trafford  guessed 
that  he  had  put  the  end  of  a  clew  into  Jenny's  hand. 
"She  diddled  me,"  he  reflected  ruefully.  Like  Lawrence, 
like  Ferrier,  and  like  Alfred  Henham,  when  he  read 
George  Mallinson's  letter  in  his  morning  paper  de  Traf- 
ford was  not  slow  to  put  his  finger  on  the  guilty  party. 
No  evidence  would  have  convinced  him  that  Sturt  had 
committed  a  breach  of  confidence.  In  the  aimless  malice 
of  the  trick  he  read  Jenny's  hand. 

And  what  now  ?  Where  would  it  all  end  ?  Again  and 
again  that  day  the  priest  had  been  on  the  point  of  going 
to  see  Mark,  and  yet  he  did  not  go.  He  had  an  intui- 
tion that  Mark  would  refuse  to  see  him,  and,  after  that 
refusal,  there  would  be  a  definite  barrier  where  now 
there  was  merely  no  bridge.  If  he  wanted  spiritual  con- 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  305 

solation,  Father  de  Trafford  reflected  with  his  shrewd 
smile,  Mark  knew  where  to  go  for  it ;  he  knew,  none  bet- 
ter, that  the  doors  of  Holy  Church  are  open  day  and 
night.  If  he  wanted  the  counsel  of  this  world,  he  knew 
equally  well  that  all  de  Trafford  could  give  as  man  to 
man  was  equally  at  his  service.  Mark  was  very  sore,  no 
doubt,  very  angry,  savagely  shy  of  his  friends;  but  he 
would  not  doubt  de  Trafford.  There  was  no  need  for 
the  priest  to  go  and  say,  "I  know  this  is  not  your  do- 
ing." Such  faith  is  taken  for  granted  in  certain  rela- 
tions, and  after  twenty  years.  On  the  whole,  the  priest 
was  of  opinion  that  Sturt  would  not  want  to  meet  him 
— not  yet,  anyhow.  "It  looks  like  revenge,"  de  Trafford 
reflected.  "If  the  truth  were  known,  I  expect  Mark 
has  chucked  the  lady,  and  she  is  getting  her  own 
back."  His  thoughts,  and  indeed  his  speech,  occasionally 
refused  to  wear  clerical  dress.  "No,  I  won't  go  to  him. 
But  I  wish  the  dear  fellow  would  come  to  me.  He  won't, 
though — not  yet."  Nevertheless,  when  the  door  bell  jan- 
gled suddenly  through  the  sleeping  house,  he  started  to 
his  feet  with  Mark's  name  on  his  lips. 

His  servant  was  in  bed  long  ago,  and  all  other  lights 
were  out.  Taking  a  candle,  de  Trafford  hurried  into  the 
hall  and  unlocked  the  door.  Outside,  darkly  silhouetted 
against  a  street  of  glimmering  snow,  stood  a  very  tall 
man  in  a  heavy  overcoat,  who  stretched  out  his  bare 
hands  to  the  priest  as  if  he  were  flying  for  his  life.  Mark 
Sturt  ?  No :  Lawrence. 

De  Trafford  drew  him  into  the  study  and  set  him  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire.  Used  as  he  was  to  the  unforeseen,  he 
was  so  excessively  startled  and  shocked  by  Lawrence 
Sturt's  appearance  that  he  knew  not  where  to  begin :  nor 
did  he  know  in  what  capacity  Lawrence  had  come  to 
him — Lawrence  who  had  never,  within  de  Trafford's 
knowledge  of  his  adult  life,  approached  a  sacrament  of 


306  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

the  Church.  But  when  no  word  came  de  Trafford  was 
forced  into  a  question. 

"Lawrence,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?" 

"Killing  a  woman." 

"Ah!"  said  Father  de  Trafford  under  his  breath. 

He  unlocked  a  cabinet,  took  from  it  a  hunting  flask 
three  parts  full  of  brandy,  and  poured  out  the  spirit  with 
no  sparing  hand. 

''Drink  this,  and  pull  yourself  together.  Remember, 
what  you  tell  me  now  is  not  under  the  seal  of  confes- 
sion." 

Lawrence  drank  it.  As  if  it  had  given  him  a  swift  up- 
leap  of  strength,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking 
round  the  room  till  his  eye  lit  on  a  tall  crucifix  that  hung 
against  the  wall.  Then  with  a  step  like  that  of  a  drunken 
man  he  reeled  across  to  the  prie-Dieu  and  fell  on  his 
knees.  There  was  something  terrible,  something  re- 
pellent to  de  Trafford's  taste  in  his  prostration.  De 
Trafford  thought  to  himself,  "This  agony  won't  last. 
How  he  has  sapped  his  own  manhood!  I  don't  believe 
he  has  killed  any  one.  I  must  stop  this." 

He  bent  over  Lawrence  and  seized  him  by  the  arm. 
"Lawrence,  get  up:  control  yourself.  Do  you  wish  me 
to  hear  your  confession?" 

Lawrence  raised  his  head,  and  before  the  blazing  mis- 
ery of  his  eyes  de  Trafford  reconsidered  his  judgment. 
"Oh,  de  Trafford,  save  me!  can  you  save  me?" 

"Save  you  from  what?" 

"From  sin,"  said  Lawrence:  "from  sin." 

Over  brow  and  breast  de  Trafford  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  "Confess  to  me  then." 

"Pray,  Father,  give  me  your  blessing  .  .    " 

There  was  no  reserve  about  Lawrence  Sturt's  con- 
fession. Forth  it  all  came,  the  sins  of  boyhood,  early 
manhood,  middle  age:  every  sin  that  Lawrence  could 


JENNY  ESSENDEN  307 

remember,  and,  beyond  the  limits  of  a  slender  code  of 
honor,  nearly  every  sin  that  de  Trafford  could  suggest. 
But  it  was  not  altogether  easy  to  understand.  Even 
the  timeworn  leading  questions,  that  had  served  to  rack 
many  a  tormented  mind  into  peace,  de  Trafford  found 
in  this  case  difficult  to  frame.  When  he  reached  the 
events  of  that  night,  Lawrence  spoke  so  low,  and  he 
was  trembling  so  violently  from  head  to  foot,  that  the 
priest  could  hardly  follow  him.  He  had  gone  late  to 
Jenny's  house  ...  he  had  forced  his  way  in  ...  there 
was  another  man  -with  her ..  .  .  there  had  been  a  row, 
and  he  had  thrown  the  other  man  out.  .  .  . 

Poor  Horton,  who  had  paid  his  price  for  Jenny's  favors 
after  all ! 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  didn't  strangle  her,"  Lawrence  said 
with  his  imperishable  gleam  of  humor.  "You  can't  kill 
her  sort.  I  tried  to  .  .  ."  He  looked  down  at  his  hands. 
".  .  .  But  that  was  afterwards." 

"After  what?" 

He  shuddered  again  from  head  to  foot,  murmured  a 
broken  sentence  which  de  Trafford  barely  caught,  and 
fainted. 

Wan  dusk  of  snowlight,  an  hour  before  dawn,  glim- 
mered through  St.  Casimir's  painted  panes.  Not  many 
worshipers  had  gathered  for  early  Mass,  that  winter 
morning;  foremost  among  them  knelt  Lawrence  Sturt, 
the  light  of  the  radiant  altar  striking  down  over  his  bare 
head.  In  the  serene  ecstatic  splendor  of  his  regard  there 
was  no  trace  left  of  last  night's  agony,  and  his  lips  moved 
in  the  rapture  of  the  Pange  lingua.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
his  absolution  had  been  deferred ;  but  that  affliction  could 
not  lessen — nothing  could  have  lessened — the  glory  of  his 
mood.  Meanwhile  Guy  de  Trafford,  not  a  little  weary 
after  his  night  of  vigil,  was  robing  himself  in  the  vestry 


308  JENNY  ESSENDEN 

for  the  sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  The  delicate  fair  face  of 
the  priest  was  overcast,  as  if  the  burden  lifted  from  his 
penitent  had  fallen  upon  him;  as  if  on  his  fastidious 
purity  of  spirit  the  grime  of  Lawrence  Sturt's  unedited 
revelations  had  thrown  a  temporary  stain.  As  he  waited 
for  the  clock  to  strike  the  quarter-hour,  de  Trafford 
thought  of  many  things :  of  Mark  Sturt  and  his  marriage, 
whose  complete  history  up  to  date  he  had  not  been  able 
to  prevent  Lawrence  from  betraying  to  him;  of  Law- 
rence and  his  headlong  reformation ;  of  the  chaos  reign- 
ing in  the  Liberal  camp ;  and  of  the  little  house  in  Green 
Street,  and  its  mistress,  the  causa  causans  of  all  these 
changes. 

"Mark  will  come  back,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  will 
blow  over — much  the  sooner  when  the  eccentric  romance 
of  his  marriage  begins  to  get  known.  It  will  cost  him, 
say,  a  year's  seniority,  but  he  will  come  back  to  politics 
in  the  end,  and  he  will  come  back  to  us.  One  is  sure  of 
my  dear  old  Mark.  And  Lawrence?  Him  we  shall  not 
keep.  I  don't  think  he  will  go  to  Green  Street  again." 
De  Trafford  was  not  sure  even  of  that.  "But  so  long  as 
he  keeps  his  splendid  looks,  and  there  are  women  in  the 
world  of  the  Essenden  type  to  tell  him  so,  we  shall  have 
no  hold  on  Lawrence  Sturt.  So  it  all  comes  round  again 
to  Jenny  Essenden.  Ah !  I  am  wanting  in  faith.  Why 
should  we  not  keep  him,  after  all?  He  is  ours  now; 
he  would  lie  down  on  the  rack  with  that  wonderful  smil- 
ing splendor  in  his  eyes.  Faint-heart  that  I  am!  is  not 
the  grace  of  God  stronger  than  the  grace  of  Jenny  Essen- 
den?" 


THE  END 


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